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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  | 

i 

GIFT  OF  | 

GEORGE  MOREY  RICHARDSON. 


Received,  ^August,  1898. 
Accession  No.  ^3  £££      Class  No.    7^<J? 


73  3  Z  2- 


PREFACE. 


Dear  friends:  one  aud  all. 

The  little  volume,  I  uow  present  to  you, 
Is  my  first  work, 

Composed  for  a  public  view. 

-3  A.  j 
And  I  hope  that  you, 

Unheeded  will  not  pass  it  by, 
With  careless  manner, 

And  cold  averted  eye. 

Please,  at  this  little  volume  look, 

And  then  to  kindly  take  ; 
Perhaps  you'll  not  regret  it,  — 

Buy  it  for  the  writer's  sake. 

Pause,  gentle  reader,  ere  your  criticism, 

On  my  little  volume  cast  ; 
Remember  it  is  my  first, 

Though  it  may  not  be  my  last. 

That  you  may  buy  the  Forget  me  not, 

And  of  it  may  not  tire, 
That  it  may  gain  your  kind  approval, 

Is  the  authoress'  earnest  desire. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE, 

Lines  After  Sickness 5 

To  Alice 6 

Reflections 7 

The  Sabbath  Bell 8 

'  They  Say ' 9 

To , 11 

My  Cottage  Home 11 

Lost 13 

The  Stepmother's  Chair 13 

Au  Revoir 15 

On  the  Eve  of  Parting 15 

We  All  Must  Pass  Away 15 

Lines  on  a  Sick  Bed 16 

The  Rainbow 17 

Lines  Composed  on  Thanksgiving  Day 18 

To  My  Cousin  on  His  Birthday 18 

The  Married  Daughter 19 

A  Happy  Thought 20 

Twilight  Musings 20 

Farewell  to  my  Old  Pen 21 

The  Old  Pen's  Reply 22 

Never  Despair 23 

My  Favorite  Village 23 

The  Old  Woman's  Wish 24 

Childish  Love 26 

That  Fatal  Cup 28 

The  Faded  Ribbon 30 

An  Inventory 33 

Lines  From  Amicus , 34 

Only  a  Lock  of  Hair &5 

The  Sunlight 37 

On  the  Death  of  Eddie  Hudson 38 

Our  Chapel \ 40 

Lines  Suggested  at  a  Watch-Meeting 41 

By-and-By .  43 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

Air  Castles 44 

To  My  Mother,  on  Her  Birthday 45 

The  Widow's  Child 46 

The  Maple  Leaf 47 

Alice's  Prayer 47 

Only  One  Eye : .  50 

The  Empty  Chair 51 

On  the  Death  of  Allie  Avery 52 

A  Visit  to  the  Old  Butternut  Tree 53 

No  Letter 55 

To  a  Robin 56 

Letter  to  My  Cousin,  J.  W.  H.,  on  His  Birthday 56 

Dick,  My  Chicken 58 

On  the  Death  of  Hon.  Erastus  Corning 60 

On  the  Death  of  Allie  Watson 61 

The  DroAvned  Boy 62 

The  Philanthropist 63 

Rest 63 

The  Old  Red  School-house 64 

The  Drunkard's  Wife 65 

A  Reminiscence 66 

My  Choice 67 

The  Gossip's  Mistake 68 

To-morrow "0 

The  Bible 70 

Is  it  Any  Thing  to  Me? 71 

The  ,Lost  Basket 72 

Judge  Not 73 

A  Summer  Evening  74 

Reading  a  Newspaper 74 

The  Potato • • 76 

Then  and  Now 77 

No 78 

An  Old  Mirror 79 

Wanted 80 

Watching  a  Candle  Burn 81 

My  Mother's  Chair 82 

A  Child's  Diary 83 

Not  Too  Far 84 

"  Thy  Will  Be  Done  " 84 

The  Flower  Garden  85 

If  You  Have  a  Will 87 

Nut  Gathering 88 


CONTENTS. 


"Too  Late  " 89 

The  Bridal 90 

The  Close  of  Day 92 

My  Faith 93 

A  Visit  To  The  Cemetery 94 

A  Fashionable  Prayer 102 

What  Shall  We  Make  of  Him 102 

Sunday . .   103 

Robbie 104 

"Make  Yourself  at  Home" 105 

Parting  Words 106 

The  First  Glass 107 

The  Blue  Gauze  Veil 108 

One  Step  at  a  Time 109 

Lin  es  for  an  Album 109 

The  Old  Fashioned  Stage 110 

"  May  Day  " Ill 

To  the  Readers  of  My  Volume 112 

A  Question 112 


POEMS. 


LINES  AFTER  SICKNESS. 

The  flowers  have  withered  and  leaves  turned  red, 

And  formed  for  the  walks  a  mat; 
And  the  village  has  grown  dull  and  lonesome, 

Since  by  this  window  last  I  sat. 

Things  look  dull  and  dreary  now, 

Sadly  I  look  at  my  gipsy  hat, 
And  think  of  the  pleasant  days  gone  by, 

And  the  day  when  by  this  window  last  I  sat. 

I  sit  again  by  my  favorite  window. 

But  can  see  nobody  but  Irish  Pat, 
For  the  people  have  left  the  village, 

Since  by  this  window  last  I  sat. 

There  almost  seems  a  blank  in  my  life, 

As  sadly  I  think  of  this  and  that. 
And  the  many  changes  that  have  taken  place, 

Since  bv  this  window  last  I  sat. 


And  over  the  graves  of  some  I  knew 

The  leaves  have  formed  a  mat, 
And  the  grass  is  growing  o'er  them, 

Since  by  this  window  last  I  sat. 

I  am  lonesome,  weak  and  spiritless ; 

I  have  no  pets,  not  even  a  cat, 
And  truant  memory  wanders  to  the  day, 

When  by  this  window  last  I  sat. 

I'll  coax  mamma  to  go  on  a  visit, 

On  a  pleasant  visit  to  nncle  Mat ; 
And  try  to  forget  the  time, 

When  by  this  window  last  I  sat. 

The  flowers  have  withered  and  leaves  turned  red. 

And  formed  for  the  walks  a  mat ; 
A  nd  the  village  has  grown  dull  and  dreary, 

Since  by  this  window  last  I  sat. 


TO  ALICE. 


The  time  has  come  that  we  must  part, 
And  now  dear  cousin  fare  thee  well ; 

I  say  it  with  a  sad  and  aching  heart, 
And  feelings  that  I  cannot  tell. 


REFLECTIONS. 

Home  from  church  once  more, 

Closed  are  the  shutters, 

And  barred  is  the  door, 

Down  for  the  night  again  I've  lain, 

Gently  falls  the  pattering  rain, 

I  close  my  eyes  and  wander  once  more 

Far  into  the  past, 

Among  scenes  that  are  o'er ; 

In  the  old  familiar  orchard 

Again  I  stand, 

With  book  tightly  clasped  in  hand; 

Now  I'm  under  the  old  sweet  tree, 

Fairy  book  upon  my  knee ; 

Now  I'm  conning  swiftly  o'er 

The  pages  I  love  so  well, 

Not  thinking  that  the  truth 

They  wholly  fail  to  tell ; 

Again  I  wander  near  the  spot, 

Where  blooms  the  sweet  forget-me-not ; 

Again  I'm  bending  o'er  the  sweet  scented  flowers, 

Planted  there  in  childhood's  hours; 

Now  I'm  at  the  garden  gate, 

A  pleasant  good  evening  to  Jennie  and  Kate, 

Chatting  childish  nonsense, 

Over  the  garden  fence ; 

Again  I'm  seated  in  the  old  church  on  the  hill, 

Singing  the  Sunday  school  song, 

"Drink  from  the  sparkling  rili  "  ; 


Now  I  sit  in  the  old  red  school  house, 

Listening  to  the  childish  stammer. 

At  the  monotonous  question, 

What  is.  English  Grammar  ? 

Now  I'm  strolling  down  the  garden  walk, 

Plucking  as  I  go  the  slender  stalk 

Of  the  stately  Hollyhock ; 

Again  I  follow  the  running  brook, 

Watching  the  fishes  on  Willie's  hook ; 

Now  I'm  in  the  old  brown  barn, 

Where  large  stacks  of  new  mown  hay 

Have  been  deftly  mowed  away  ; 

Again  I  stand  by  my  favorite  window 

Where  so  oft'  I've  stood 

In  the  happy  days  of  childhood. 

But  lo !  the  midnight  bell 

Calls  me  from  my  favorite  scene ; 

Alas !  it  was  only  a  visionary  dream. 


THE  SABBATH  BELL. 
I  lie  alone  in  my  room 

With  feelings  I  cannot  tell, 
And  the  only  sound  I  hear, 

Is  the  Holy  Sabbath  bell. 

I  lie  alone  in  my  quiet  room, 
Listening  some  sound  to  hear, 

When  joyfully,  joyfully 

The  Sabbath  bell  greets  my  ear 


THEY  SAY. 

"They  say"  is  a  bitter  fiend  to  all  — 

Old  and  young, 

Eich  and  poor, 

Alike  to  all ; 

Even  on  the  most  innocent 
The  "They  Say"  rumors  fall. 

They  generally  commence 

Without  foundation, 
And  touch  upon  those 

Of  every  rank  and  every  station. 

"  They  Say  "  is  told  to  an  intimate  friend. 
And  here,  of  course,  it  does  not  end ; 
Soon  into  another  friendly  ear, 
The  tale  is  poured,  with  a  laugh  and  sneer, 

"They  Say"  has  blighted  many  a  life  — 
Has  caused  hatred,  envy  and  strife ; 
Yet,  the  "  They  Say  "  rumors  do  not  cease, 
But  rather  continue  to  increase. 


10 

Could  the  innocent  and  unsuspecting 

For  a  moment  know 

That  "  They  Say  "  is  on  the  go, 
They  would  not  wonder  why 
Old  friends  pass  them  coolly  by. 

"They  Say"  is  continually  causing 

Sorrow,  grief  and  woe, 
And  is,  indeed,  to  all  (exceptions  are  rare) 

A  bitter  foe. 

"  They  Say  "  rumors  are  ever 

On  the  wing, 
And  few  they  are  who  stop  to  ask 

Whence  they  spring. 

Let  each  and  every  one, 

To  whom  is  told  "  They  Say," 

Just  pause,  before  replying, 
And  ask  who  are  the  "  They." 


11 


TO 


The  pleasant  hours  have  past, 

And  I  must  now  return ; 
'Tis  hard  to  say  good-bye, 

But  the  lesson  we  must  learn. 

But  I  shall  not  forget  the  hours 

We've  spent  by  the  bright  green  sea, 

And  though  I  may  be  far  away 
I  shall  often  think  of  thee. 

Through  life's  stormy  weather, 

Where  e'er  thou  goest,  where  e'er  thou  be, 
Though  daily  cares  be  many, 

Please  sometimes  think  of  me. 


MY  COTTAGE  HOME. 

If  thou  will  listen  a  while  to  me, 

I  will  try  and  paint  a  picture  for  thee, 

But  do  not  expect  it  to  be  great,  or  grand, 

Painted  by  my  inexperienced  hand ; 

It  will  be  no  spiral  arch, 

Nor  celebrated  dome ; 

No  monarch's  palace, 

Nor  king's  high  throne  ; 

The  picture  I  will  paint  for  thee, 

Is  simply  my  cottage  home  ; 

It  stands  upon  a  little  hill, 


Of  the  brightest  mossy  green, 

Close  beside  a  sparkling  rill, 

The  merriest  ever  seen ; 

Its  size  is  just  the  kind 

To  please  any  cheerful,  contented  mind ; 

Its  color  is  white,  with  blinds  of  green, 

So  bright  and  new, 

Methinks  the  prettiest 

Ever  the  sun  shown  through ; 

And  of  flowers  the  most  brilliant  store, 

That  human  eye  hath  seen, 

Surrounds  my  cottage  door  ; 

Roses  of  every  size  and  hue, 

And  morning  glories  red,  white  and  blue, 

Arid  running  vines  are  clinging  o'er, 

And  peeping  in  at  my  cottage  door ; 

My  cottage  home  is  simple,  neat  and  plain. 

Of  grandeur  it  does  not  boast, 

Pretensions  to  wealth  it  does  not  claim, 

But  comfort  and  cheerfulness  doth 

My  cottage  home  surround, 

And  many  attractive  features 

Can  here  be  found ; 

But  alas  the  happy  days, 

That  I  could  call  it  mine,  have  flown, 

And  a  stranger  owns  my  cottage  home. 


13 


LOST. 

Lost  last  evening  between  sun  down  and  dark, 

Between  the  stone  church  and  the  village  Park, 

A  priceless  treasure  of  value  untold, 

More  precious  by  far  than  silver  or  gold; 

Money  did  not  purchase  it, 

And  money  cannot  replace  it ; 

It  was  a  gift  from  no  earthly  friend, 

But  a  gift  that  God  did  send ; 

For  the  gratification  of  pleasure 

Was  lost  this  beautiful  treasure ; 

For  the  sake  of  a  walk, 

And  a  little  small  talk, 

Without  regard  to  cost, 

The  priceless  gem  was  lost ; 

Xo  reward  is  offered  the  finder, 

For  to  find  no  one  has  the  power; 

The  treasure  lost  was  a  golden  liour. 


THE  STEPMOTHER'S  CHAIR 

To  those,  who  are  contemplating 

Connubial  bliss, 
A  word  of  kind  advice  is  offered, — 

It  is  this : 

Consider  the  step  you're  about  to  take, 
And  be  sure  you're  wide  awake, 
For  your  happiness  is  now  af  stake ; 


14 

Whether  good  or  whether  bad, 
You  are  choosing  your  future  fate ; 
Pause  then  ere  it  be  too  late, 
And  above  all  things  beware !  beware ! 
Of  taking  the  stepmother's  chair. 

Joy  may  seem  in  store  for  you, 

Pleasures  too  may  seem  in  view, 

But  no  happiness  will  you  see, 

After  a  stepmother  you've  come  to  be; 

Though  the  future  look  bright  and  fair, 

Sorrow  and  trouble  are  lurking  there, 

Of  this  fact  be  well  aware, 

Happiness  comes  not  from  the  stepmother's  chair 

It  is  no  trifling  act  to  do, 

But  indeed,  a  serious  and  sad  affair, 

To  take  the  step  which  seats  you 

In  the  stepmother's  chair; 

There  is  a  mystic  nymph  called  fate 

Who  is  ever  at  your  hand, 

And  like  a  messenger  from  fairy  land, 

She  is  whispering,  ere  it  be  too  late, 

List  to  a  warning  voice, 

Beware  of  your  impending  fate, 

And,  beware !  beware ! 

Of  the  stepmother's  chair. 


AU  REVOIR. 
Farewell  is  hard  to  say, 
Adieu  is  not  much  better, 
While  good-by,  I  fail  to  utter, 

What  shall  I  say  ? 
Some  word  must  soon  be  spoken,- 

Only  to-morrow, — 
Oh !  I'll  say  simply  au  revoir. 


ON  THE  EVE  OF  PARTING. 

On  the  morrow  we  must  part : 
This  little  token  I  give  to  thee, 

And  though  we  never  meet  again, 
I  trust  thou  wilt  remember  me. 


WE  ALL  MUST  PASS  AWAY 

We  are  young  and  happy  now, 
With  spirits  blithe  and  gay ; 

But  let  us  not  forget 
That  we  all  must  pass  away. 

While  we're  planning  for  the, 
And  fortune  smiles  on  us  to-day, 

Let  us  not  forget,  but  e'er  remember 
That  we  all  must  pass  away. 


16 

Others,  too,  have  formed  bright  plans, 
With  hearts  and  spirits  just  as  gay, 

And  we  know  the  time  will  come 

When,  as  they  have,  so  must  we  all  pass  away. 

Our  bright  eyes  will  soon  grow  dim  — 

Our  glossy  hair  turn  gray ; 
Oh,  let  us,  then,  be  well  prepared, 

For  we  all  must  pass  away. 


LINES  ON  A  SICK   BED. 

Fve  been  wild  and  wayward, 

But  you'll  forgive  me  now, 
And  place  one  hand  upon  my  breast  — 

The  other  on  my  brow. 

As  you've  watched  with  me  by  night, 
And  watched  with  me  by  day, 

I  trust  you'll  not  forget  me 
When  I  have  passed  away. 

Farewell,  mother,  I  must  leave  thee  — 
Leave  thee  for  my  home  on  high ; 

Do  not  weep  for  me,  dear  mother, 
But  kiss  me  a  sweet  good-bye. 


17 

[The  following  poem  I  probably  should  never  have  writ 
ten,  had  it  not  been  for  a  dream  my  mother  had.  She  thought 
a  certain  person  asked  her  if  I  ever  had  written  on  the  rain 
bow.  That  reminded  me  of  the  subject.] 

THE  RAINBOW. 

Oh,  what  a  glorious  sight  it  is, 

When  the  sun  is  growing  low, 
To  look  far  down  in  the  west 

And  see  the  beauteous  rainbow. 

I  love  to  look  at  the  rainbow 

Not  merely  because  it  is  pretty  to  see, 

But  because  it  reminds  me  of  God's  promise 
And  all  He  has  been  to  me. 

At  any  time  I  love  to  see  the  rainbow, 
But  I  think  it  by  far  a  prettier  sight, 

And  love  to  gaze  at  it  longer 
When  'tis  growing  nearly  night. 

It  reminds  me  of  something  cheerful  — 

The  beautiful,  beautiful  rainbow ; 
And  what  a  pretty  sight  it  is 

Just  at  night,  when  the  sun  is  low. 

Other  subjects,  than  this,  to  write  upon, 

To  me  far  easier  seem, 
And  of  this  one  I  should  not" have  thought, 

But,  for  my  mothers  dream. 


18 


LINES  COMPOSED  ON  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

[  remember  this  day  four  years  ago, 
I  felt  as  bright  as  the  flowers  of  May, 

And  well  might  I  feel  so  then, 

For  bright  was  the  morn  of  Thanksgiving  day. 

How  many  changes  have  taken  place 
Since  this  day  four  short  years  ago ; 

Many  of  my  friends  that  then  were  well 
Now  in  the  grave  lie  low. 

I,  too,  was  then  in  perfect  health, 
No  sickness  had  dimmed  my  brow, 

Then  I  was  free  from  care  and  pain, 
But  oh,  how  different  now ! 


TO  MY  COUSIN,  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY. 

Dear  cousin  this  is  thy  birthday, 

But  give  thee  no  gifts  rare  or  very  nice, 

But  if  thou'll  accept  it  kindly, 
I'll  give  thee  what  is  better  —  good  advice. 

Twelve  years  thou  now  hast  seen, 
And  hast  thou  improved  them  well  ? 

Those  beautiful  years  that  are  gone ; 
Ah !  art  thou  ashamed  to  tell  ? 

Now  dear  cousin  improve  the  years 

That  God  shall  give  to  thee, 
And  know,  for  every  one  of  them, 

Thou  accountable  must  be. 


11) 


When  thy  next  birthday  comes, 
I  may  be  far  from  thee, 

But  I  trust  thou  will  remember 
These  simple  lines  for  me. 


THE  MARRIED   DAUGHTER. 

A  mother  once  two  daughters  had 

Who  cheered  her  home  as  she  older  grew ; 

She  loved  them  both,  but  her  favorite 
Was  the  elder  of  the  two. 

For  many  years  she  cheered  that  home, 
But  happy  circles  must  sometimes  break, 

Even  though  death  comes  not, 
A  favored  one  to  take. 

And  there  came  a  day  when  she  left  her  home 
To  share  her  joys  and  sorrows  with  another; 

Ah !  the  lonely  home  she  left 
For  her  broken-hearted  mother. 

Every  place  where  she  had  trod  — 
Every  thing  that  she  had  done  — 

Seemed  dearer,  far,  to  that  sad  mother, 
Now  that  she  had  gone. 

Years  swept  on ;  but  Time 

The  loneliness  could  not  deface ; 
Nor  from  that  mother's  memory 

Could  it  the  loved  form  erase. 


A  HAPPY  THOUGHT. 


Though  loved  ones  have  left  us, 
And  severed  hath  been  the  chain, 

It  is  a  happy  thought 

That  the  pure  can  meet  again. 


TWILIGHT  MUSING. 

The  twilight  hour  again  has  come, 
The  hurry  and  worry  of  the  day  is  done  ; 
I  sit  me  down  by  the  blazing  firelight 
To  enjoy  for  awhile  the  calm  twilight. 
I  close  my  eyes  and  ponder  o'er 
The  scenes  that  will  return  no  more ; 
Varied  and  many  are  they  — 
Some  are  sad  and  some  are  gay. 
I  love  the  sad  ones  not  the  best ; 
Still,  to  think  of  them  gives  me  rest ; 
The  loving  clasp  and  sweet  good-bye,  Lilly, 
Lisped  by  my  dear  little  cousin  Willie, 
Whom,  on  earth,  I  was  no  more  to  see, 
Is  a  very  precious  recollection  to  me  ; 
And  yet  the  tears  from  eyes  will  fall 
As  oft'  as  I  that  sad  moment  recall ; 
But  the  lamps  are  lit  and  burning  bright, 
My  twilight  hour  is  o'er  to-night. 


FAREWELL  TO   MY  OLD  PEN 

Old  pen,  thy  work  is  nearly  done, 
But  thou  hast  served  me  well, 

And  of  thy  faithfulness  to  me 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  tell. 

Thou  hast  stood  by  me  well,  old  pen, 
Thou  hast  never  forsaken  me  ; 

Now  thou  art  old  and  worthless, 
I  will  not  despise  thee. 

Thou  hast  been  true  to  me,  old  pen, 

I  can  safely  say  a  friend, 
In  forming  the  many  letters 

That  I  have  had  to  send. 

Thou  hast  been  with  me  far  and  near, 

In  many  a  shady  nook; 
ID  the  flowery  grove  and  dell 

And  by  the  purling  brook; 

Oft'  thou  hast  paused  awhile, 

When  from  my  eye  there  fell  a  tear, 

Or  trembled  in  my  hand 
Which  shook  with  fear. 

Many  a  secret,  dear  old  pen, 

Have  I  confided  to  thee, 
And  well  enough  I  know 

Thou  never  will  betray  me. 


22 

At  every  call  dear  pen  thou'sfc  come, 

And  done  for  me  much  good, 
In  sickness  and  in  sorrow, 

Thou  by  me  as  a  friend  have  stood. 

So  long  have  we  been  friends  together ; 

So  many  lonely  hours  thou'st  cheered  me  ; 
That  tho'  I  change  thee  for  a  new, 

Still  will  I  ever  keep  thee. 

Yes,  dear  old  pen,  thou'st  served  me  well, 
And  now  no  hand  shall  harm  thee, 

For  highly  I  prize  thy  valued  worth, 
And  what  thou'st  done  for  me. 


THE  OLD  PEN'S  REPLY. 

I  have  served  thee  long  and  well, 

But  now  my  work  is  done, 
And  I  expect  soon  to  be  forsaken, 

For  a  new  and  better  one. 

Oft'  when  thou  hast  been  seated, 
Thy  ringers  tightly  clasping  me, 

I've  noticed  thy  sad  and  tearful  look, 
And  how  I've  pitied  thee. 

I've  done  for  thee  what  e'er  I  could, 
And  now  do  not  want  to  leave  thee ; 

I  am  grateful  for  thy  kindness, 

And  ask  that  near  thee  thou  will  put  me. 


NEVER  DESPAIR. 

If  your  pathway  be  not  smooth, 
And  your  future  look  not  fair, 

Or  you  get  vexed  at  some  little  trifle, 
Oh,  don't  give  up  in  despair. 

Brighter  days  will  come  to  you, 

Days  that  will  be  fair, 
If  you  only  will  have  courage, 

And  not  give  up  in  despair. 

Though  dark  and  dreary  be  your  lot 
And  fortune  frown  on  you  to-day ; 

To-morrow  your  luck  may  change 
And  fortune  turn  the  other  way. 

Never  despair,  let  come  what  will, 
Think  there  are  better  days  in  store 

Press  on,  press  on,  with  courage  bold, 
And  never  despair  any  more. 


MY  FAVORITE  VILLAGE. 

The  pleasant  little  village  of  C , 

Why  do  I  love  it  so  well? 

Because  it  hath  many  charms  for  me 
Charms  that  I  cannot  tell. 

The  pleasant  little  village  of  C , 

Though  why  I  can  hardly  tell ; 

I  know  'tis  very  dear  to  me, 

And  there's  none  I  love  so  well. 


Yonder  's  the  little  grove, 

Through  which  in  days  gone  by 

I've  passed  so  many  times, 
Oh,  how  can  I  say  good-bye  ? 

Don't  ask  me  why  I  love  it, 

For  that  I  cannot  tell, 
But  let  me  stay,  I  pray  thee, 

In  the  village  I  love  so  well. 

And  when  my  life  is  done, 

And  the  hand  of  death  shall  fell ; 
Oh,  bury  me  here,  bury  me  here, 

In  the  village  I  love  so  well. 


THE  OLD  WOMAN'S  WISH. 
I  boast  not  wealth  nor  fame, 

Nor  aught  to  cherish  pride ; 
But  I  prize  far  more  than  these 

My  cottage  by  the  river  side. 

My  cottage  is  plain  and  humble, 

But  from  it  I  can  see  the  ebbing  tide, 

And  for  neither  wealth  nor  fame  would  I  exchange 
My  cottage  by  the  river  side. 

In  this  humble  cottage  I  was  born, 

And  who  me  will  dare  to  chide, 
For  loving  with  such  fervent  love 

My  cottage  by  the  river  side. 


25 

In  this  cottage  I  passed  my  childhood, 

And  in  it  I  became  a  bride ; 
Do  you  wonder  that  I  love 

My  cottage  by  the  river  side  ? 

By  a  thousand  ties  'tis  bound  to  me ; 

In  that  corner  my  mother  her  needle  plied, 
And  brothers  and  sisters  here  have  played 

In  my  cottage  by  the  river  side. 

Yonder  is  the  little  hill 

Down  which  we  used  to  slide ; 
I  can  see  it  plainly 

From  my  cottage  by  the  river  side. 

Here  in  this  little  cottage 

Loved  ones  have  lived  and  died. 

And  I  want  no  other  home 

Than  my  cottage  by  the  river  side. 

Sorrow  and  trouble  may  come  to  me, 
But  what  e'er  befall,  what  e'er  betide, 

I  still  will  cling  with  fond  affection 
To  my  cottage  by  the  river  side. 

And  I  only  ask  that  I, 

While  my  sands  of  life  so  swiftly  glide, 
May  spend  my  few  remaining  days 

In  my  cottage  by  the  river  side. 

And  when  I  die  I  wish  my  friends, 
No  fashionable  burial  spot  provide, 

I  only  wish  to  be  buried  near, 
My  cottage  by  the  river  side. 


26 


CHILDISH  LOVE. 

We  stood  at  the  garden  gate, 
Freddie,  my  childhood's  playmate 

And  I; 
Many  happy  hours  together 

We  had  passed, 
And  there  had  often  met  before, 

But  this  time  was  our  last ; 
Freddie  was  twelve, 

And  I  was  eight, 
When  last  we  stood 

At  the  garden  gate. 
The  sun  had  set,  t'was  growing  late} 
Still  we  lingered  at  the  gate, 
Hands  tightly  clasped  together; 
At  last  he  spoke, 
You'll  not  forget  me, 

Never  ; 
You'll  think  of  me  ? 

Yes,  ever ; 

Another  pause  and  then  he  said, 
With  trembling  voice 
And  drooping  head : 
My  little  pet,  my  pride, 
We  may  never  meet  again, 
Never  more  stand  side  by  side ; 
But  darling  will  you  not  say, 
Should  we  live  to  meet  again, 
Sometime  you'll  be  my  bride  ? 


27 

How  grand  it  sounded  to  my  ears; 
For  joy  I  could  almost  shed  tears ; 
(You  must  remember  I  was  only  eight, 
When  this  transpired  at  the  garden  gate,) 

Yes,  I  will,  was  nearly  spoken, 
When  suddenly  something  seemed  to  whisper, 

Childish  promises  soon  are  broken : 
No,  no,  I  quickly  said, 
I  cannot  promise  you  that,  Fred, 
You  know  it  would  be  very  wrong, 
Because  we  are  both  so  young, 
But  this  I  say,  you  go  your  way 
And  I'll  go  mine, 

And  perhaps  sometime  I  may  be  thine. 
The  sad,  reproachful  look  he  gave  me  — 
The  same  look  now  I  see  ; 
How  I  pitied  him, 

I  thought  I  had  almost  committed  a  sin  ; 
At  last  he  said,  I  will  be  satisfied, 
If  you  think  it  better  so, 
And  now  dearest  I  must  go  ; 

O  * 

Believe  me,  I  shall  ever  be  true, 
And  never  shall  love  any  but  you  ; 
And  I  never  shall  love  another,  said  I, 
As  I  kissed  Freddie  a  sad  good  bye : 
For  a  while  every  week, 
A  white-winged  messenger  came, 
Bearing  at  the  close  Freddie's  name, 
But  shorter  they  grew  and  farther  apart, 
(At  first  I  framed  an  excuse  in  my  heart) ; 


28 

But  ere  long  they  ceased  to  come  at  all, 

Then  tears  from  my  eyes  would  fall, 

When  I  thought  that  he 

Had  so  soon  forgotten  me ; 

Ten  years  had  fled  — 

Many  changes  taken  place ; 

Some  friends  were  dead, 

Others  in  a  western  land  had  gone  to  roam ; 

I  had  removed  to  a  city  home, 

When  one  day  I  received  from  Freddie  a  letter, 

(Do  you  think  my  heart  began  to  nutter?) 

Calmly  I  opened  it  and  read, 

For  my  love  for  him  had  long  been  dead ; 

I  read  without  a  tear, 

Wondering  the  while  he  ever  was  dear, 

I  am  married,  and  my  wife's  name  is  Kate ; 

How  often  I  laugh  at  our  childish  talk, 

As  we  parted  at  the  garden  gate. 

Into  the  burning  embers  I  threw  the  letter, 

And  with  it  a  locket,  his  last  little  token, 

Alas !  said  I,  childish  promises  soon  are  broken; 

And  childish  love  is  soon  forgotten. 


THAT  FATAL  CUP. 


That  fatal  cup  hath  caused  the  death  of  many 
Who  in  premature  graves  are  sleeping ; 

It  hath  caused  the  grief  of  many 
Who  with  broken  hearts  are  weeping. 


29 

That  fatal  cup  hath  caused  sorrow  and  woe. 

Hath  been  fruitful  of  sin  and  strife, 
Hath  ruined  many  a  happy  home, 

And  blighted  many  a  happy  life. 

That  fatal  cup  hath  caused  a  blight 
On  many  an  innocent  and  youthful  life 

The  bitter  blight  and  seething  curse 
Of  being  a  drunkard's  wife. 

And  she  hath,  for  him  she  loved, 

Patiently  borne  the  stain, 
TJiat  fatal  cup  hath  cast  upon 

Her  pure  and  spotless  name. 

That  fatal  cup  hath  caused  the  suffering, 

The  grief  and  terror  wild, 
Of  many  a  little  one  who's  borne, 

The  name  of  drunkard's  child. 

How  many  a  broken-hearted  mother, 

A  prayer  to  God  is  sending, 
For  a  son  much  loved, 

Who  o'e.r  that  fatal  cup  is  bending. 

That  fatal  cup  invites  to  shame 

Our  every  virtue  pure, 
And  on  toward  the  grave 

It  rapidly  cloth  lure. 

How  many  health,  wealth,  friends, 
And  even  life,  have  yielded  up, 

For  the  sake  of  drinking  from 
TJiat  cursed  fatal  CUD. 


30 


THE  FADED  RIBBON. 
I  was  rummaging  leisurely  o'er 

A  box  of  things  cast  aside 
To  be  used  no  more ; 

And  had  searched  it  nearly  through, 
When  lo  !  a  faded  ribbon 

Met  my  view. 

But  why  should  a  faded  ribbon 
Cause  a  tear  in  my  eye  to  start, 

As  tremblingly 

I  press  it  to  my  heart ! 

Ah  to  me  it  is  no  mystery, 
I'll  tell  you  why, 

That  faded  ribbon  has  a  history. 

Excuse  me,  readers,  it  is  chance 

That  makes  this  little  sketch 
A  romance; 

It  was  a  beautiful  day, 
And  a  cloudless  morning 

In  the  month  of  May. 

Into  the  shaded  wood  to  gather  flowers, 

Went  my  brother  and  I ; 
We  spent  two  happy  hours, 

Then,  when  we  had  done, 
We  sat  down  to  rest,  on  an  old  brown  stone. 


31 

No  sooner  had  we  taken  our  seat, 

Than  to  rest  my  head,  I  let  it  forward  sink, 
When  just  at  my  feet 

I  discovered  a  ribbon  of  the  brightest  pink 
We  examined  that  ribbon  well, 

But  whose  it  was,  or  whence  it  come, 
We  could  not  tell. 

She  '11  be  a  fool, 

If  she  don't  be  sent  to  a  boarding  school, 

Besides  it  isn't  fair, 

Keeping  Will  in  college  way  off  there, 

And  keeping  our  only  girl  at  home, 

Her  school  days  will  soon  be  done  ; 

His  aid  to  mother's,  Will  kindly  lent, 

And  finally,  I  to  boarding  school  was  sent. 

It  will  be  such  pleasure  and  delight, 
You  really  must  go  to  the  party  to  night, 
Said  Kitte  May  to  me ! 
She  was  my  most  intimate  friend  you  see ; 
How  it  happened  so 
I  certainly  do  not  know, 
She  was  wealthy  and  very  fair, 
Neither  my  wealth  nor  looks  could  with  hers 
compare. 


32 

I  pleaded  what  I  always  plead, 
Kittle  I've  nothing  to  wear, 

But  she  minded  not  what  I  said, 
And  kept  on  frizzing  my  hair, 

There,  all  that's  lacking  now, 

Is  a  ribbon  for  a  bow. 

No  ribbon  could  I  find, 

Suitable  for  the  bow, 
At  last  I  thought  of  the  ribbon 

That  I  found  so  long  ago, — 
That  ribbon,  said  she,  is  mine. 

I  lost  it  years  ago. 
I  was  riding  with  Uncle  Sime, 

Through  the  old  pine  woods  at  0., 
I  wore  that  ribbon  in  my  hair, 

I  never  saw  it  after, 
I  must  have  dropped  it  there. 

Suffice  to  say  it  tied  a  lover's  knot, 
For  her  and  brother  Will ; 

They  both  have  long  been  dead, 
But  I  keep  the  faded  ribbon  still. 


33 


AN  INVENTORY. 

A  rough,  bare  and  broken  floor, 

One  hinge  off  the  only  door, 

A  rusty  stove  minus  one  leg, 

A  worn  out  cap  on  a  broken  peg ; 

Old  hats  and  caps  for  window  lights, 

(They  '11  keep  out  storm  on  stormy  nights,) 

Three  old  and  broken  plates, 

A  cup  and  two  saucers  that  are  not  mates, 

One  iron  spoon  and  part  of  another, 

A  tea-pot  minus  handle  and  cover, 

An  old  kettle  with  many  a  crack, 

Two  old  spiders  that  handles  lack; 

A  rusty,  worn  out  can, 

One  bottomless  basin  and  old  tin  pan, 

Parts  of  a  few  knives  and  forks, 

A  jug  and  stack  of  corks: 

A  table  minus  a  leaf  and  leg, 

And  one  old  broken  keg, 

A  woman  crouching  in  perfect  awe, 

Near  a  poor  old  pallet  of  straw, 

On  which  a  haggard  man  lies, 

Uttering  wild  and  piercing  cries ; 

Six  hungry  mouths  that  will  not  be  shut, 

Is  an  inventory  of  a  drunkard's  hut. 


34 

[.The  Stepmother's  Chair,  which  has  been  previously  in 
serted,  was  written  and  sent  to  the  press  on  a  certain  occa 
sion,  and  the  writer  not  caring  to  have  it  known  that  she  was 
the  author  of  it,  signed  the  fictitious  name  of  Amicus,  which 
is  the  Latin  word  for  friend.  The  next  week  the  verses 
did  not  appear  in  the  paper,  but  instead  the  following : 
"Anonymous.  We  have  received  a  poetic  effusion  of  more 
or  less  merit,  entitled  'The  Stepmother's  Chair.'  Amicus 
should  know  that  we  always  expect  the  true  name  of  the 
writer,  not  necessarily  for  publication,  but  as  a  guaranty 
of  good  faith.  That  little  editorial  article  elicited  the 
following:"] 

LINES  FROM  AMICUS. 

The  author  of  the  Stepmother's  Chair 

Certainly  was  not  aware 

That  your  rules  for  publishing  claim, 

That  the  writer  must  send  her  name. 

She  regrets  she  did  not  know 

Your  rules  were  strictly  thus  and  so  ; 

She  thought  if  she  did  the  verses  send 

To  you,  as  coming  from  a  friend. 

That,  if  worthy  to  print  them,  you  wrould  deign, 

Though  the  writer  withheld  her  name, 

But  she  finds  alas  too  late, 

Where  she  made  a  slight  mistake  ; 

This  time  she  sends  to  you  her  name,         [gain  ; 

And  hopes  her  verses  may  your  kind  approval 

Simple,  though  those  verses  be, 

They  were  composed,  and  written  bona  fide, 

And,  as  a  guarantee  of  good  faith, 

This  to  you  the  writer  saith, 

That  she  will,  every  week,  if  you  choose, 

Send  you  a  piece  in  verse  or  prose, 

Providing  her  name  you'll  not  disclose. 


35 

You  say  the  verses  have  of  merit  more  or  less, 

And  this  the  writer  does  confess, 

That  herself  she  dare  not  flatter, 

And  so  concludes  it  is  the  latter, 

But  ere  you  criticism  at  those  verses  hurl, 

Know  that  Amicus  is  only  a  school  girl ; 

And  that  the  verses  sent  to  you 

Were  the  first  she  has  composed  for  public  view. 

And  were  but  the  production  of  an  hour's  pas- 

Whicli,  as  luck  would  have  it,  [time. 

Chanced  to  be  a  rhyme, 

And  lest  you  might  think  her  bold, 

Amicus  did  her  name  withhold; 

Hoping  you  will  not  think  her  dull, 

She  gives  you  now  her  name  in  full, 

It  is  simply  this, 


ONLY  A  LOCK  OF   HAIR. 

What  is  left  me  now 

Of  the  one  I  loved  of  yore, — 

Of  the  one  who  died  so  young  and  fair, 

Alas !  it  is  only  a  lock  of  hair. 

And  yet  how  highly  prized  by  me ; 

No  costly  gems  nor  jewels  rare 
Could  purchase  from  me  . 

This  lock  of  hair. 


36 

Long  years  have  passed  since,  from 

That  dear  head 

I  slipped  this  lock  of  hair, 

And  little  thought  when  I  did  so, 

It  would  so  soon  be  lying  low, 

But  oh  'tis  now  with  the  greatest  care 

That  I  preserve  this  lock  of  hair. 

Only  a  lock  of  hair; 

It  is  not  much,  and  is  not  much 

To  see, 

But  oh,  it  brings  to  memory 

Fresh 

That  one  so  dear  to  me. 

The  world  is  bright  and  gay, 
And  the  things  within  are  fair, 
But  oh !  I  ask  for  them  not, 
While  there  is  left  me 
This  lock  of  hair. 

When  my  few  years  have  run 

Their  race, 
And  I  lie  down  in  my 

Resting  place, 
When  I  have  passed  from 

This  world  of  care, 
On  my  heart  let  lie 

This  lock  of  hair. 


37 


THE  SUNLIGHT. 

I  raise  my  head  from  the  weary  pillow, 
On  which  it  has  lain  all  night, 

O          * 

Aching,  throbbing  and  beating, 
And  welcome  the  glad  sunlight. 

Oh !  how  gladly  I  welcome  it, 

Dear,  delightful  sight, 
And  raise  a  prayer  to  God  on  High, 

For  the  beautiful  sunlight. 

However  ill  I  may  be, 

It  gives  me  a  feeling  bright, 

As  I  open  my  eyes, 

And  am  greeted  by  the  glad  sunlight. 


38 

[Edward  Clarke  Hudson,  only  son  of  our  beloved  pastor, 
Rev.  Thomas  B.  Hudson,  died  in  Clinton,  1ST.  Y.,  December 
9,  1871,  after  a  long  and  painful  illness,  aged  ten  years 
and  ten  months.  Little  Eddie  was  a  member  of  the 
Sunday  school,  a  bright,  active  and  intelligent  little  fellow, 
who,  by  his  kindness  of  heart  and  loving  disposition,  had 
gained  many  friends.  His  farewell  message  to  his  Sabbath 
school  mates  was :  "Tell  them  all  I  love  them,  and  want 
them  to  love  Jesus."] 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDDIE  HUDSON. 

Little  Eddie  them  art  gone, 

Gone  from  this  world  of  sin  and  strife. 
Short  indeed,  but  beautiful, 

Has  been  thy  little  life. 

For  many  long  and  weary  weeks, 

Extended  on  a  bed  of  pain, 
Watched  o'er  by  anxious  friends, 

Thy  little  form  has  lain. 

But  now  thou  art  free  from  pain, 

We  know  thou  art  at  rest, 
Within  thy  Heavenly  Father's  arms, 

In  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 

We  miss  thee,  little  Eddie, 

When  in  the  Sabbath  room  we  meet, 

Involuntarily  our  eyes 

Eest  upon  thy  vacant  seat. 

Sadly  indeed  we  miss  thee, 
Where  e'er  thou  wert  wont  to  go. 

And  yet  we  would  not  wish  thee  back, 
To  this  world  of  sin  and  woe. 


39 

For  them  hast  died  in  childhood, 
With  all  thy  fresh  loveliness  now, 

With  the  mark  of  youthful  innocence 
Upon  thy  pure  young  brow. 

What!  wish  thee  back  to  this  cold  world ! 

Dearly  as  we  loved  thee, 
Wish  thee  back,  the  sin  and  wickedness 

Of  this  cold  world  to  see ! 

No !  no !  far  better  is  thy  little  form 

Resting  beneath  the  downy  sod, 
Thy  little  spirit  safe 

Within  the  portals  of  thy  God. 

Thou  hast  reached  thy  home, 

Beyond  the  azure  skies, 
Far  happier  than  we, 

Who  yet  must  fight  to  win  the  prize. 

Dear  Eddie,  we  shall  miss  thee, 

And  oft'  in  the  future  shall  shed  a  tear, 

Sacred  to  thy  memory, 

WThich  we  shall  hold  so  dear. 

But  we  will  not  wish  thee  back ; 

W^e  will  bid  thee  a  sweet,  but  sad  good  bye, 
And  strive  hard  that  we  one  day, 

May  meet  thee  in  thy  home  on  High. 


40 


OUR  CHAPEL. 

It  is  a  quiet  secluded  spot, 
Where  envy  and  strife  enter  not. 

Each  Tuesday  eve,  we  gather  there. 
To  spend  an  hour  of  prayer. 

While  the  noise  of  the  world  ceases  not, 
We  gather  in  that  hallowed  spot ; 

While  the  worldly  man  is  hurrying  by, 
With  flushed  cheek  and  sunken  eye ; 

While  street  boys  arc  yelling  loud, 
And  yonder  passes  a  gala  crowd  ; 

And  drunkards  are  gathering  at  the  shop, 
Ought  we  gather  in  that  sacred  spot  ? 

Till  we  extend  to  every  one  and  each, 
That  is  anywhere  within  our  reach ; 

A  hearty,  friendly  call, 

That  will  touch  the  heart  of  all. 

To  join  us.  in  the  chapel  there, 

And  spend  with  us  an  hour  of  prayer ! 

After  they  once  had  joined  us  there, 
And  spent  with  us  an  hour  of  prayer. 

They  might  prefer  to  the  street  or  shop, 
That  quiet,  consecrated  spot. 


[A  watch-meeting  is  a  meeting  held  at  the  close  of  the 
year,  where  services  are  held  till  twelve  o'clock,  to  watch 
out  the  old  year,  as  it  is  called,  and  watch  or  welcome  m  the 
new.  This  meeting  is  generally  held  by  the  Methodists, 
but  the  other  denominations  are  not  slow  to  attend  it.] 

LINES  SUGGESTED  AT  A  WATCH-MEETING, 

Old  year  thou  art  dying  now, 
All  thy  busy  days  are  past, 

We've  gathered  in  this  sacred  place, 
To  watch  thee  breathe  thy  last. 

What  the  new  year  will  bring, 

None  of  us  can  tell, 
And  it  is  with  sadness,  and  with  joy 

We  bid  thee  now  farewell. 

'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
To  part  with  thee,  old  year ; 

Thou  hast  brought  much  joy, 
Tho'  oft'  the  sigh  and  tear. 

Many  a  soul  from  sin  and  sorrow 

Thou  hast  helped  us  save, 
Hast  been  at  the  marriage  altar, 

And  by  the  open  grave. 

And  tho'  thou  wilt  soon  be  gone, 
And  a  new  one  we  shall  see, 

Amid  its  cares  and  duties, 
We  shall  often  think  of  thee. 


Hark !  tis  the  clock,  one  hour 
And  we  shall  know  thee  no  more, 

Thou  will  be  added  to  the  list, 
Of  those  that  have  gone  before. 

Pause  a  moment,  tread  lightly, 

Speak  soft  and  low, 
And  breathe  gently, 

The  old  year  is  dying  now. 

Silence  now  reigns  around, 
Scarce  can  we  suppress  a  tear, 

As  we  watch  the  last  breath 
Of  the  dying  year. 

Old  year  thou  art  gone, 

All  thy  work  is  done, 
And  once  again  we  bid  farewell 

To  eighteen  seventy-one. 

And  now  it  is  with  mingled  feelings, 
But  friendship  warm  and  true, 

That  we  extend  a  cordial  welcome, 
To  eighteen  seventy-two. 

Sunday  eve...  Dec.  31, 1871. 


43 


BY  AND  BY. 

A  little  girl  was  saying  impatiently, 

What  is  the  reason  why 
I  never  can  do  this  or  that  ? 

Fll  do  it  by  and  by. 

A  maiden  fair  looked  from  her  window, 

And  gently  heaved  a  sigh ; 
Ah  !  she  murmured  to  herself, 

Fll  be  happy  by  and  by. 

A  young  and  lovely  bride, 

With  joy  and  happiness  high, 
Murmured  fondly  to  herself, 

Fll  be  happier  by  and  by. 

A  mother  watched  o'er  her  first-born  babe, 

With  loving,  anxious  eye, 
And  murmured  fondly  to  herself, 

I'll  be  so  happy  by  and  by. 

An  aged  one  sat  by  the  hearth, 

With  silver  locks  and  tear-dimmed  eye, 

And  murmured  sadly  to  herself, 
Witt.  I  be  happy  by  and  ly  ? 

For  four  score  years  I've  been  preparing, 
For  something  grand  and  high, 

But  never  once  thought  to  prepare 
For  the  future  by  and  by. 


44 

But  now  I  am  old  and  feeble, 
The  hand  of  death  draws  nigh ; 

0 !  that  I  had  made  ready, 
For  the  future  by  and  by. 

Oh  !  that  we  who  from  day  to  day 
Are  aspiring  to  something  high, 

May  bear  in  mind,  and  be  prepared, 
For  the  future  by  and  by. 


AIR  CASTLES. 
Ah  !  I've  built  them  many  a  time, 

Built  them  cautiously,  too,  with  care, 
But  found  alas!  they  were  naught 

But  castles  in  the  air. 

I've  built  them  of  every  shape  and  size ; 

Large  and  small,  plain  and  fair, 
But  I  found  the  best  of  them, 

Were  but  castles  in  the  air. 

Every  time  I'd  think,  this,  time, 

I'll  lay  the  foundation  with  such  care 

It  cannot  be  a  failure, 

But  it  would  prove  a  castle  in  the  air. 

I've  built  them  of  the  choicest  material, 
The  most  precious  and  most  rare, 

But  it  mattered  not,  they  proved  alike 
But  castles  in  the  air. 


45 


I've  smiled  triumphantly  as  I  said, 
Nothing  can  with  this  compare, 

But  'twas  only  a  foolish  boasting, 
Of  a  castle  in  the  air. 

They've  fallen  so  many  times, 
Built  too  with  so  much  care, 

That  every  thing  I  undertake,  I  ask, 
Will  it  be  a  castle  in  the  air  ? 

I  trust  that  as,  myself,  I  try, 

For  Heaven  to  prepare, 
It  may  not,  like  all  the  rest, 

Prove  a  castle  in  the  air. 


TO  MY  MOTHER,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

Mayst  them  to  day  dull  care  put  away, 
And  may  happiness  near  thee  hover, 

May  a  bright  ray  near  thee  stay, 
On  this  thy  birthday,  dear  mother. 

And  as  o'er  vanished  years,  thro'  a  mist  of  tears, 

Memory  flies  quick  and  fast, 
Oh !  dry  thy  tears,  and  all  doubts  and  fears 

Far  from  thee  cast. 

Do  not  sigh  for  the  years  gone  by, 

But,rather  thank  our  Heavenly  Father, 

Who  from  on  High,  with  loving  eye, 

Has  spared  and  watched  o'er  thee.  dear  mother. 


46 


Now  may  He  hear  my  prayer  and  kindly  spare 
Thee  to  see  many  birthdays  more,  [fair, 

And  when  thro'  with  care,  and  this  false  world 
Receive  thee  on  that  beautiful  shore. 


THE  WIDOW'S  CHILD. 

Her  lot  is  a  hard,  hard  one  to  bear, 

Her  sorrow  deep  and  wild, 
But  who  has  a  smile  or  pitying  tear 

To  give  the  widow's  child  ? 

My  friend  we  will  not  call  on  her, 
They  have  no  carpets  on  the  floor, 

No  sofas  nor  piano, 

I  know  they  must  be  poor. 

But  here  she  is  coming  now, 

(Where  is  the  smile  or  soft  word  mild  ?) 
Just  turn  your  head  aside, 

She's  only  a  widow's  child. 

Oh  !  how  few  there  are 

Who  with  a  word  friendly,  mild, 
(Not  merely  as  an  act  of  duty) 

Would  greet  the  widow's  child. 

Ah  !  dainty  miss,  remember  you 

In  grief  and  sorrow  wild, 
May  yet  be  bowing  low  your  head, 

And  be  a  widow's  child. 


THE  MAPLE  LEAF. 

The  trees  were  gently  shaking. 

The  leaves  were  falling  beneath, 
I  picked  from  among  them  all, 

A  single  maple  leaf. 

I  now  am  many  miles, 

From  the  tree  it  fell  beneath, 
And  I  cherish  warm  and  true, 

This  single  maple  leaf. 


[The   original    of    the    following,    is    in 
Scenes,"  and  I  transform  it  into  verse:] 


Death   Bed 


ALICE'S  PRAYER. 

Two  parents  this  bright,  green  earth  once  trod, 

Who  had  no  desire  to  worship  God  ; 

Two  lovely  children,  He  had  given  them, 

A  girl  of  five,  a  boy  of.  ten ; 

These  two  children,  lovely  and  fair, 

Had  never  been  taught  the  meaning  of  prayer. 

Once  on  a  visit,  little  Alice  went, 

And  with  her  friends  the  night  she  spent ; 

These  little  girls  had  been  taught  to  pray,        [day, 

And  were  accustomed  to  repeat  their  prayers  each 

But  when  they  knelt  them  down  this  time, 

Two  little  girls  of  seven  and  nine, 


48 

They  noticed  quickly,  with  much  dismay, 

Their  guest  knelt  not  down  to  pray. 

Said  the  eldest,  will  you  not  "  Our  Father  "  say  ? 

Said  Alice,  I  know  not  the  meaning  nor  the  way; 

Will  you  not  learn  then  ?  said  she  ; 

Kneel  and  learn  it,  please,  of  me ; 

And  Alice,  quick  to  learn,  soon  knew  well, 

The  prayer,  of  which,  she  had  never  heard  tell. 

When  she  went  home,  she  taught  her  brother  to  say 

The  pretty  prayer  she  had  learned  that  day  ; 

And  every  day  they  knelt  side  by  side 

To  say  their  prayer  at  eventide ; 

But  ere  one  short  year  had  passed, 

A  shadow  was  over  that  household  cast, 

And  the  voice  that  had  with  merriment  gushed, 

Was  silent  now  by  anguish  hushed ; 

And  to  the  weeping  parents  standing  by, 

The  doctor  whispered,  Freddie  must  die  ; 

The  minister  called  to  see  the  child, 

Who,  looking  heavenward,  gently  smiled ; 

He  was  surprised  to  hear  the  mother  say, 

Will  you  kneel  by  my  boy  and  pray  ? 

And  then  she  told  him  with  much  joy, 

How  her  little  girl  and  darling  boy 

Had  knelt  each  day,  side  by  side, 

To  say  their  prayer  at  eventide, 

Since  that  well-remembered  day, 

When  Alice  first  learned  "  Our  Father  "  to  say. 

It  was  night !  dread  silence  reigned  around, 

The  mother  watched  her  boy  with  grief  profound, 


49 

And  started,  as  she  heard  him  softly  say, 
Mother  dear,  I  want  some  one  to  pray ; 
Pray !  how  strange  and  sad  to  say, 
That  mother  could  not  pray ; 
What  could  be  done  that  time  of  night  ? 
To  send  for  the  minister  would  not  be  right, 
She  went  to  the  room  of  her  sleeping  child, 
And  bade  her  in  accents  soft  and  mild, 
To  come  and  kneel  by  her  brother's  side. 
And  pray  as  they  used  at  eventide  ; 
And  there  that  little  girl  of  five  years  old, 
Who  the  prayer  to  her  brother  first  told, 
Knelt  in  her  night  dress  of  snowy  white, 
Knelt  her  there  in  the  dead  of  night, 
By  her  dying  brother's  side, 
And  prayed  as  they  had  prayed  at  eventide ; 
Those  parents  after  laying  their  child  beneath  the 
Both  gave  up  their  hearts  to  God.  [sod. 

4 


50 

ONLY  ONE  EYE. 

Oh !  she  was  a  lovely  girl, 

So  pretty  and  so  fair, 
With  gentle,  lovelit  eyes, 

And  wavy,  dark-brown  hair. 

I  loved  the  gentle  girl, 

But  oh !  I  heaved  a  sigh, 
When  first  she  told  ine  she  could  see, 

Out  of  only  one  eye. 

But  soon  I  thought  within  myself, 
I'd  better  save  my  tear  and  sigh, 

To  bestow  upon  some  I  know, 
Who  has  more  than  one  eye. 

She  is  brave  and  intelligent, 

Too  she  is  witty  and  wise, 
She'll  accomplish  more  now,  than  many 

Who  have  two  eyes. 

Ah  !  you  need  not  pity  her. 

She  needs  not  your  tear  and  sigh, 
She  makes  good  use,  I  tell  you, 

Of  her  one  remaining  eye. 

In  the  home  where  we  are  hastening 
In  our  eternal  Home  on  High, 

See  that  you  be  not  rivaled, 
By  the  girl  with  only  one  eye. 


51 


THE  EMPTY  CHAIR. 

You  look  at  it  now  with  misty  eyes, 
And  think  of  her  who  once  sat  there  ; 

Anew  she  comes  to  your  memory, 
As  you  see  her  empty  chair. 

You  see  her  soft,  blue  eyes  aglow, 

Her  heavy  curl's  of  hair, 
You  see  her  as  she  used  to  sit, 

In  that  little  empty  chair. 

You  see  the  work  she  used  to  hold, 
The  thimble  she  used  to  wear, 

As  she  sat  and  sewed, 

In  that  little  empty  chair. 

You  remember  the  day  so  cold  and  rainy, 
That  to  let  her  go  out  you  did  not  dare; 

Eemember  how  she  sat  and  cried, 
In  that  little  empty  chair. 

You  remember  an  evening  in  May, 
Remember  the  cold,  damp  air, 

And  the  last  time  that  she  sat, 
In  that  little  empty  chair  ? 

Dust  it  carefully  and  clean, 

And  put  it  away  with  care, 
For  very  sacred  to  you  now, 

Is  that  little  empty  chair. 


52 


[Died  in  Clinton,  N.  Y.,  January  31, 1872,  after  a  few  hours 
illness,  Alice  Delia  Avery,  eldest  child  of  Theodore  and 
Elmira  M.  Avery,  and  granddaughter  of  Dr.  Charles  Avery, 
aged  13  years,  2  months  and  9  days.] 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ALLIE  AVERY. 

Dear  Allie  thou  art  gone. 

Gone  from  this  world  of  sin  and  'woe, 
Thy  gentle  form  and  smiling  face, 

We  shall  see  no  more  below. 

But  thou  art  greatly  missed, 
Nor  shall  we  soon  forget  thee, 

As  we  gather  in  the  places, 
Where  tliy  face  we  used  to  see. 

And  most  of  all  we  miss  thee, 

When  in  the  Sabbath  school  we  meet ; 

Alas  !  our  little  band  again  is  broken, 
There  is  another  vacant  seat. 

Death,  that  fatal  messenger, 
With  his  cold  relentless  hand, 

Stepped  in  and  singled  thee, 
From  out  our  golden  band. 

Now,  when  we  gather  there, 

We  never  more  can  see  thy  smiling  face, 
Thy  gentle  little  form ; 

But  instead  thy  vacant  place. 


53 


But  though  'tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 

And  hard  our  grief  to  quell, 
Still  we  can  make,  it  if  we  will, 

A  brief,  and  not  a  last  farewell. 

We  know  that  thou  art  happy  now, 
Within  the  mansions  of  the  skies ; 

We  think  thou  must  be  happier  than  we, 
Who  yet  must  strive  to  win  the  prize. 

And  ma}7  we  who  still  are  striving, 
Those  mansions  keep  in  view  ; 

May  we  as  we  journey  on, 
The  Heavenly  way  pursue. 

Dear  Allie  may  we  all, 

Each  member  of  our  little  band, 
Strive  hard,  that  we  one  day 

May  join  thee  in  that  happy  land. 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  OLD  BUTTERNUT  TREE. 

Where  are  they  all,  the  girls  and  boys, 

Who  used  to  sit  with  me, 
Beneath  the  spreading  branches 

Of  this  old  Butternut  tree  ? 

Ah !  it  was  many  long  years  ago, 
Since  they  bade  farewell  to  me, 

And  I  parted  with  them  all* 
Beneath  this  Butternut  tree. 


54 

Some  have  found  a  watery  grave, 

Far  down  in  the  deep,  deep  sea, 
And  some  have  died  in  foreign  lands, 

Who  sat  beneath  this  Butternut  tree. 

I  wish  I  could  recall  all  their  names, 

So  familiar  they  were  to  me, 
But  I  can't  recall  the  names  of  half, 

Who  sat  beneath  this  Butternut  tree. 

There  was  Kate,  yes,  I  remember, 

Always  so  full  of  romance  she, 
I'll  write  down  one  authoress, 

From  the  old  Butternut  tree. 

And  Maggie  with  always  a  book, 
And  pencil  and  paper  on  her  knee, 

I'll  write  down  one  preceptress, 
From  the  old  Butternut  tree. 

And  Lucy  with  paint  and  brush, 

Trying  to  paint  a  house  or  barn,  the  land  or 
I'll  write  down  one  artist,  [sea, 

From  the  old  Butternut  tree. 

And  Fan  with  sober,  solemn  face, 
Holding  ever  the  peacemaker's  key, 

I'll  write  one  missionary's  wife, 
From  the  old  Butternut  tree. 

And  Kit  forever  worrying  and  stewing, 
About  her  breakfast,  dinner  or  tea, 

I'll  write  down  one  farmer's  wife, 
From  the  old  Butternut  tree. 


55 

And  Sue  who  couldn't  bear  work, 
But  always  could  hold  a  plea, 

I'll  write  down  one  lawyer's  wife, 
From  the  old  Butternut  tree. 

And  Min,  if  ever  you  spoke  of  a  cold. 

I  must  make  you  some  catnip  tea, 
I'll  write  down  one  doctor's  wife, 

From  the  old  Butternut  tree. 

But  they  all  are  scattered  now 

Who  used  to  sit  with  me 
Beneath  the  spreading  branches 

Of  this  old  Butternut  tree. 


NO  LETTER. 

I  stood  shaking  and  trembling, 

I  couldn't  compose  myself  any  better 

But  how  I  wanted  to  cry, 

At  the  monotonous  words,  no  letter. 

My  heart  was  as  heavy 

As  if  it  were  bound  with  a  fetter ; 
Does  everybody  feel  so  badly 

At  the  monotonous  words,  no  letter  ? 

Or  am  I  so  much  to  blame  ? 

Could  I  compose  myself  any  better  ? 
I  hardly  think  I  could, 

At  the  monotonous  words,  no  letter. 


5G 


TO  A  ROBIX. 


Welcome  sweet  little  robin  of  spring, 
Welcome  to  your  last  year's  nest, 

I  am  glad  to  have  you  again  to  sing, 
And  will  treat  you  to  food  of  the  best. 


LETTER  TO  MY  -COUSIN,  J.  W.  H.,  ON  HIS 
BIRTHDAY. 

It  is  thy  birthday,  cousin  dear; 

Twelve  ere  this  one  thou  hast  seen, 
And  I  wish  I  could  be  near, 

On  this  that  numbers  thee  thirteen. 

I  was  with  thee,  one  short  year  ago, 

And  as  to  day  I  cannot  be, 
I  send  this  missive,  that  thou  mayst  know 

I  am  thinking  of  thee. 

God  has  spared  thee  till  thirteen  years, 

Thou  now  hast  seen  ; 
Some  joy,  though  many  tears, 

Have  with  them  mingled  been. 

Grief  and  sorrow  have  not  passed  thee  by. 

JL  J  J 

Though  thou  art  still  so  young, 

The  bitter  tear  and  deep  drawn  sigh, 

Have  oft'  from  thee  been  wrung. 


57 

Thou  wert  yet  but  a  little  babe, 

When  thy  loving  father 
Within  the  grave  was  laid : 

Next  died  thy  little  brother : 

Deep  grief  was  upon  thee  then, 
When  died  thy  little  brother, 

But  it  was  deeper  far,  when 
Death  seized  thy  fond  mother. 

But  two  short  years  have  passed 
Since  death,  breaking  again  thy  joy. 

Entering  thy  household  last, 
Left  thee  an  orphan  boy. 

But  J  esus  will  n'er  forsake  thee ; 

Seek  Him  early  in  thy  youth ; 
He  will  ne'er  forgetful  be ; 

Learn  of  Him  the  blessed  truth. 

Strive  to  meet  father  and  mother, 

Who  have  gone  on  before, 
And  thy  dear  little  brother, 

On  that  beautiful  shore. 

I  wish  to  ask  something  of  thee, 
Then  my  missive  I  will  close, 

And  hope  thou  wilt  excuse  me, 
For  not  writing  it  in  prose. 


58 

From  evil  habits  thyself  keep  free, 

Ever  "  keep  the  right  side  of  the  hedge," 

And  tho'  the  use,  thou  mayst  not  see, 
Please  sign  the  temperance  pledge. 

I  might  displease  thee  in  this  rhyme, 

If  more  I  should  ask  or  tell, 
So  I'll  defer  the  rest  till  another  time, 

And  bid  thee  now  farewell. 

Such  parts  thou  needst  but  once  peruse, 

As  do  not  suit  thee  to  a  T, 
And  please  them  kindly  to  excuse, 

In  your  loving  cousin,  L.  E.  C. 


DICK,  MY  CHICKEN. 

It  was  the  first  pet  I  ever  had, 
A  lovely,  bottle  green  chick, 

I  never  have  seen  another, 

That  looked  like  my  little  Dick 

She  followed  me  everywhere, 
In  every  corner  and  nick, 

Ah !  she  was  a  winsome  creature, 
My  darling  little  Dick. 


OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY 


(59 


Upon  my  arm  she  would  jump, 
With  her  musical  click,  click, 

She  was  a  knowing  creature, 
My  petted  little  Dick. 

She  grew  to  be  a  nice  large  hen, 
And  my  cousin  used  to  say, 

(Though  I  didn't  credit  it,) 
She  laid  two  eggs  a  day. 

But  once  when  I  had  been  away, 
They  told  me  with  much  dread, 

And  after  much  evasiveness, 
That  little  Dick  was  dead. 

Do  not  feel  bad,  said  they, 
For  you  can  have  your  pick, 

Out  of  a  large  flock, 
And  get  another  Dick. 

But  I  shook  my  head  and  said, 
I'll  never  pet  another  chick, 

But  ever  sacred  to  my  memory, 
Shall  be  my  little  Dick. 


60 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HON.  ERASTUS  CORNING. 

Albany,  yea,  we  may  say  the  world, 

Has  lost  another  friend, 
In  the  death  of  him  whose  useful  life, 

Has  now  come  to  an  end. 

To  every  good  and  useful  cause, 
He  always  lent  a  helping  hand, 

And  he'll  now  be  mourned  by  many, 
Scattered  o'er  our  land. 

His  was  a  kind  and  generous  heart, 
He  aided  the  needy  without  a  show, 

And  of  the  good  deeds  he  did, 

He  cared  not  for  the  world  to  know. 

As  a  successful,  prosperous  merchant, 

He  was  known  far  and  near, 
And  many  now  in  that  pursuit, 

Will  drop  for  him  a  tear. 

Adverse  circumstances  he  passed  through, 

And  many  obstacles  overcame, 
But  amid  them  all  he  gained, 

A  brave  and  honored  name. 

He  has  indeed  been  a  public  benefactor, 
On  a  scale  both  great  and  grand ; 

To  whom  are  we  so  much  indebted 

For  the  railroads  throughout  our  land  ! 


01 

Who  did  more,  who  so  much  as  he 

Who  is  now  gone  forever,  [West, 

To  ope'  communication  between  the  East  and 
And  link  them  thereby  together  ? 

By  many  in  various  institutions, 

And  in  many  business  marts, 
His  name  will  long  be  cherished, 

Sacred  to  their  hearts. 

He  is  gone,  but  the  good  that  he  has  done, 

'Twere  not  possible  to  tell, 
And  a  large,  tearful  eyed  crowd,  it  was, 

Gathered  to  bid  him  a  last  farewell. 


[Died  at  Clinton,  N.  Y.,  June  9,  1871,  Allyn  Presseguie 
Watson,  youngest  child  of  Capt.  J.  Watson,  aged  3  yeara 
and  8  months.] 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ALLIE  WATSON. 
He  was  a  bright  and  active  child, 

With  merry,  laughing  eye, 
And  won  a  smile  from  every  one 

Who  chanced  to  pass  him  by. 

Generally,  as  you  passed  his  father's  store, 

Little  Allie  was  to  be  seen, 
He  was  a  knowing  little  fellow, 

So  active  and  so  keen. 

But  the  little  pet  is  gone, 

His  little  spirit  fled, 
And  little  Allie  now,    * 

Is  numbered  among  the  dead. 


His  little  toys  are  put  away, 
Aside  is  set  his  little  chair, 

And  folded  carefully  in  the  drawer, 
Are  the  clothes  he  used  to  wear. 

His  little  life  had  but  just  begun, 
But  then  he  was  but  given, 

To  fade  upon  this  cold  earth, 
And  blossom  bright  in  heaven. 


[A  son  of  Cyrus  N.  Ballon  was  drowned  in  the  Cayadutta 
creek  near  Fonda,  N.  Y.,  Monday,  April  8,  1872.] 

THE  DROWNED  BOY. 

He  started  from  home  as  usual. 
And  little  then  thought  they, 

That  in  the  cold,  deep  water  he  would  lie, 
Before  the  close  of  day. 

Two  other  men  were  with  him, 
But  as  the  boat  whirled  round, 

The  other  two  were  saved, 

But  the  little  boy  was  drowned. 

No  loving  friends  watched  o'er  him, 

Or  closed  his  eyes  in  sleep  ; 
He  struggled  with  the  waves  alone, 

And  sank  beneath  them  deep. 

On  the  resurrection  morn, 

When  we  wake  at  the  trumpet's  sound, 
Parents  and  friends  again  will  meet, 

The  little  bov  that  drowned. 


63 


THE  PHILANTHROPIST. 

You  know  him  by  his  kind,  benignant  eye, 

Clear  as  the  morning  mist, 
You  know  him  by  his  every  word  and  deed. 

The  noble  hearted  Philanthropist. 

However  oft'  you  see  him, 

Tho'  it  be  for  many  successive  days, 
He  is  always  doing  something, 

Some  mortal,  from  woe  to  raise. 

To  the  tales  of  his  fellow  beings 

He  never  fails  to  list, 
And  always  has  a  smile  for  all, 

The  noble  hearted  Philanthropist. 


REST. 

Many  ask  that  with  great  wealth 
They  may  abundantly  be  blest, 

But  Father  in  Heaven,  0  !  give  to  me, 
The  boon  I  crave,  sweet  rest. 

From  the  turmoil  of  the  world, 
From  its  noisy  joke  and  jest, 

From  the  hurry  and  confusion, 
0  !  give,  I  pray  thee,  rest. 


64 


I  ask  not  for  hoarded  wealth. 
But,  0  !  for  some  quiet  nest, 

Aside  from  the  world's  confusion, 
Where  I  can  find  sweet  rest. 

I  am  tired  of  vanity  and  show, 
And  of  the  haugthy  jest, 

I  want  a  quiet,  secluded  spot 
Where  I  can  find  sweet  rest. 

Ah  !  there  is  a  spot,  not  on  earth, 

If  ever  I'm  so  blest. 
As  to  reach  that  happy  spot, 

I  shall  find  sweet  rest. 


THE  OLD  RED  SCHOOL-HOUSE. 

I  remember  its  battered  and  broken  door, 
Its  marred  and  time-worn  sill, 

I  remember  every  feature 

Of  the  School-house  on  the  hill. 

It  stood  twenty  rods  from  a  little  grove, 
As  many  from  the  old,  brown  mill, 

And  it  was  a  merry  group  that  gathered 
In  the  School-house  on  the  hill. 

But  that  merry  group  is  scattered  now; 

Some  sleep  beneath  the  ocean  wave, 
And  others,  in  some  distant  land, 

Have  found  a  martyrs  grave. 


65 

Some  for  our  country's  welfare 

Their  life  did  nobly  yield, 
And  fell,  without  a  murmur, 

On  the  Southern  battle  field. 

A  modern  school-house  now  stands, 
Where  the  old  red  one  used  to  stand 

And  where  there  used  to  gather 
Such  a  merry,  laughing  band. 

Yes  it  has  the  modern  improvements, 
The  new  fashioned  door  and  sill ; 

It  bears  little  or  no  resemblance, 
To  the  old  School-house  on  the  hill. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  WIFE. 

The  room  was  cold  and  cheerless, 
The  fire  in  the  grate  burned  low, 

A  woman  pale,  weak  and  weary, 
Eocked  a  cradle  to  and  fro. 

She  wrapped  her  babe  still  closer, 
And  prayed  for  him  to  come, 

Then  she  paused  and  listened ; 
The  town  clock  was  striking  one. 

Again  she  listened,  and  this  time 
The  staggering  step  she  heard, 

She  ope'd  the  door  and  pulled  him  in, 
But  uttered  not  a  word. 


66 

No  kind  and  loving  word 

Greeted  her  tired  ear, 
From  him  who  promised  to  love,  cherish 

And  protect  her  from  every  fear. 

And  that  faded  woman  was  once  a  belle, 

And  led  a  happy,  joyful  life, 
But  what  has  caused  so  great  a  change  ? 

Alas !  she  is  a  drunkard's  wife. 


A  REMINISCENCE. 

Though  I  should  live  for  four  score  years, 
I  should  never  forget  that  night, 

The  happy  group  upon  the  stage 
In  gala  dresses  of  snowy  white. 

We  stood  and  sang  our  parting  hymns 

Without  a  signal  of  tears ; 
So  young,  careless  and  gay, 

We  had  no  thought  of  future  years. 

That  happy  group  was  not  to  meet  again, 

Until  it  meets  on  high  ; 
Alas !  who  thought  that  we  were  singing 

Our  last  good  bye  ? 

Some  have  happy  brides  become  ; 

Some  have  in  the  grave  been  lain, 
That  happy  group  is  sadly  scattered ; 

Here  it  will  never  meet  again. 


67 


MY  CHOICE. 

They  tell  me  of  the  pure  country  air, 
And  the  woodland  flowers  fresh  and  fair, 
And  though  there  is  nothing  pedantic, 
Still  every  thing  is  very  romantic, 
And  to  leave  the  city  noise,  din  and  strife, 
And  enjoy  a  while  the  blessed  country  life. 

From  their  description  it  ought  to  suit  me 

Like  a  charm, 
So  I  find  myself  some  fine  morning 

On  my  uncle's  farm  ; 
The  first  thing  that  greets  my  ear 

Is  a  grunt  and  a  squeal, 
The  first  thing  that  greets  my  sight, 

Molly  with  a  basin  of  meal. 

They  said  every  thing  was  so  nice  and  fine, 

But  then  I'll  not  take  this  as  a  sign  ; 

I  '11  not  begin  to  worry  and  fret, 

I  may  find  it  pleasant  yet ; 

I  '11  go  to  the  orchard,  it  must  be  nice  there, 

And  pick  some  flowers,  as  I  go,  for  my  hair ; 

The  orchard  now  I  can  plainly  see, 

And  lo  !  the  pigs  for  they  are  there  before  me, 

I  return  to  find  the  boys 

Over  a  little  money,  or  few  worthless  toys, 

Very  deep  in  anger  and  strife. 

Is  this  blessed  country  life  ? 


68 


Where  is  the  quietness  and  seclusion  ? 
I've  seen  nothing  but  noise  and  confusion, 
So  I  think  it  all  but  a  fond  delusion. 

Here,  for  me,  there  is  no  bliss, 

I  far  prefer  the  city  to  this, 

But,  better  than  either  of  these  still, 

(If  I  speak  with  my  own  free  will, 

And  do  not  suffocate  my  voice,) 

I  like  a  village,  and  that's  my  choice. 


THE  GOSSIP'S  MISTAKE. 

She's  an  idle  girl,  I  know  she  is, 
For  this  morning,  I  stopped  there, 

And  there  she  sat   as  usual, 
Lolling  in  the  rocking  chair. 

I  don't  believe  she  does  a  chore, 
Not  even  to  comb  her  hair, 

For  the  other  day  I  saw  her  sister 
Combing  it  with  great  care. 

She'll  never  do  for  me  a  wife, 

Said  poor  Harry  Blake, 
And  my  way  to  California 

Straightway,  I  think  I'll  make. 

Meanwhile  the  unconscious  subject, 
"Was  busy  with  brush  and  paint, 

Though  head  and  hands  were  weary, 
And  she  so  weak  and  faint. 


69 

The  work  was  done  at  last, 

Exquisitely  and  rare, 
But  toil  and  anxiety  had  told 

Upon  the  artist  young  and  fair. 

And  ere  a  twelve  month  had  fled  . 

They  laid  her  'neath  the  weeping  willow, 
And  her  fair  young  head 

The  coffin  did  thus  early  pillow. 

And  far  away  in  the  land  of  gold, 

Close  by  a  little  lake, 
Some  strangers  made  another  grave 

And  laid  poor  Harry  Blake. 

The  gossip  read  the  circumstances, 

And  owned,  alas !  too  late, 
I'm  sorry  I  said  a  word, 

'Twas  all  a  great  mistake. 

Our  account  to  God  must  be  the  same 

For  every  heart  we  break, 
Whether  it  be  through  malice  done, 

Or  only  by  mistake. 


70 


TO-MORROW. 

To-day  we  will  banish  all  care, 
And  from  our  hearts  all  sorrow, 

To-day  we  will  rest  and  be  gay, 
And  pay  for  it  all  to-morrow. 

To  morrow  is  to-day's  advocate, 
And  he  proves  a  faithful  one, 

For  much  is  deferred  till  to-morrow, 
That  should  to-day  be  done. 

Think  not  of  it  to-day, 

Why  useless  trouble  borrow  ? 

There's  time  enough  to  do  it  in, 
We'll  think  of  it  to-morrow. 

And  the  advocate  still  pleads, 

And  on  he  lures  his  victims  thus, 

Till  we  find  alas  "  too  late," 
That  to-morrow  has  ruined  us. 


THE  BIBLE. 

We  may  love  to  read  the  brilliant  novel, 
Or  of  fashions  the  last  display, 

Or  some  grand  and  thrilling  historic  work 
Of  an  ancient  far  off  day. 

But  after  the  toil  of  the  day  is  over, 

We  love  the  Bible  best, 
For,  as  we  turn  its  sacred  pages, 

We  find  within  them  rest. 


71 

The  novel  Avill  lose  its  clmrms, 

Because  it  is  not  true, 
The  fashions  Avill  grow  dull, 

When  they're  no  longer  new. 

Of  the  historic  work  we  soon  may  tire, 
But  the  Bible  we  know  is  true, 

And  ever,  within  its  hallowed  pages, 
We  find  something  new. 


IS  IT  ANY  THIXG  TO  ME  ? 

Is  it  any  thing  to  me  if  Sally  Hawkins 
Has  been  sent -to  boarding  school, 

Or  because  Jim  KimbalFs  son 
Has  been  called  a  fool  ? 

Is  it  any  thing  to  me  if  Mrs.  -    -  has  gone 

To  spend  the  summer  season  ? 
Is  it  any  thing  to  me,  I  say, 

If  I  don't  know  the  reason  ? 

Is  it  any  thing  to  me  if  Jacky  Janes 

Is  sent  to  school  all  day, 
And  when  he  comes  home  at  night 

His  mother  lets  him  play  ? 

Is  it  any  thing  to  me  if  somebody 
Has  been  dissipated  from  his  youth  ? 

Is  it  any  thing  for  me  to  tell 
Even  if  it  should  be  the  truth  ? 


Is  it  any  thing  to  me,  if  the  widow  Graham's 
Is  always  reading  a  book  ?  [daughter 

Is  it  any  thing  to  me,  I  want  to  know, 
If  she  don't  know  how  to  cook  ? 

Is  it  any  thing  to  me  if  Molly  Lee 

Drawrs  and  paints  from  morning  until  night  ? 
Is  it  my  business  to  go  and  tell  her 

That  she  isn't  doing  right  ? 

This  world  is  large  and  wide, 

And  this  I  know  is  true : 
If  I  mind  my  own  affairs, 

I  can  find  enough  to  do. 


THE  LOST  BASKET. 

I  was  wandering  through  the  field, 
In  the  lovely  month  of  October ; 

It  was  a  strawberry  field, 

But  strawberry  time  was  over. 

I  walked  slowly,  sadly  and  tearfully, 

No  longer  happy  and  free, 
For  when  I  was  there  before, 

My  little  sister  was  with  me. 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 
I  had  turned  my  steps  toward  home, 

And  was  thinking  how  I 

Henceforth  must  come  alone. 


73 

When  I  saw  partially  hidden  by  grass, 
Not  a  rich  laden  jewel  casket, 

But  something  far  dearer  to  me, 
Her  lost  little  basket. 

I  kissed  it,  I  hugged  it, 

I  wet  it  with  tears, 
And  cherished  it  warmly, 

For  a  great  many  years. 


JUDGE  NOT. 

However  hard  a  person  looks, 
Hard  may  have  been  his  lot ; 

'Tis  not  for  yon  nor  me  to  tell, 
So  we  will  jndge.  him  not. 

He  may  be  ragged  and  forlorn, 
Stern  poverty  may  be  his  lot, 

And  still  he  may  be  worthy, 
So  we  will  judge  him  not. 

We  may  soon  be  neglected  and  alone, 

Hard  may  be  our  lot, 
Then  we  should  like  a  smile, 

So  we  will  jndge  him  not. 

Let's  go  and  speak  a  kindly  word 

To  cheer  his  weary  lot, 
That  will  be  by  far  ttte  best, 

For  God  has  said,  "  Jndge  not." 


A  SUMMER  EVENING. 

The  work  of  the  clay  is  clone, 

And  we  sit  down  in  the  cool  of  the  day 
To  think  and  rest, 

And  watch  the  sun's  last  golden  ray. 

And  some  large  bird  with  his  beak, 
Reminds  us  of  a  little  drummer. 

And  every  thing  seems  so  cheerful 
On  a  beautiful  evening  in  summer. 


READING  A  NEWSPAPER. 
Mr.  A.,  the  thriving  merchant, 

Looks  it  quickly  o'er, 
To  find  the  list  of  articles, 

He  keeps  in  his  store. 

Mr.  R,  the  prosperous  lawyer, 

Searches  it  hast'ly  through, 
To  see  what  prospective  suits 

Are  now  in  view. 

Miss. ,  the  no  longer  youthful  maiden, 

Smiles  with  glad  surprise, 
As  she  reads  the  charming  toilet  articles, 

For  cheeks,  lips  and  eyes. 

Mrs, ,  the  lady  of  fashion, 

Cons  it  languidly  o'er, 
To  see  what  fashionable  amusement, 

Is  now  in  store. 


The  gay  and  dashing  belles 
At  the  fashion  column  glance, 

Ere  they  to  their  rendezvous, 
With  merry  sayings  prance. 

The  pious,  godly  old  man, 

With  solemn,  conscientious  views, 
Looks  it  through  expressly, 

To  find  the  religious  news. 

The  political  man  reads  Ms  columns, 

To  see  if  he  can  get  a  clue 
As  to  who  the  next  President  will  be, 

If  they  have  one  in  view. 

And  so  ea<?h  one  reads  the  article 

He  or  she  likes  best ; 
Not  caring,  perhaps,  a  farthing 

For  any  of  the  rest. 

It  is  read  and  cast  aside, 

Perhaps  in  the  waste  basket  put, 
Or  for  the  pantry  shelves, 

Or  into  patterns  cut. 

Suppose  you  keep  it  carefully. 

Through  sunshine  and  through  tears, 
Keep  it  as  clean  as  possible 

For  ten  or  twenty  years, 

Then  take  it  out  and  peruse 
Its  time  worn  pages  once  more ; 

It  will  take  you  back  to  the  time 
When  you  read  it  in  days  of  yore. 


76 


THE  POTATO. 

What  on  this  wide  earth 

That  is  made,  or  does  by  nature  grow, 
Is  more  homely,  yet  more  beautiful. 

Than  the  useful  Potato  ? 

What  would  this  world  full  of  people  do, 
Rich  and  poor,  high  and  low, 

Were  it  not  for  this  little- thought  of 
But  very  necessary  Potato  ? 

True  'tis  homely  to  look  on, 
Nothing  pretty  in  even  its  blow, 

But  it  will  bear  acquaintance, 
This  useful  Potato. 

For  when  it  is  cooked  and  opened, 

It's  so  white  and  mellow, 
You  forget  it  ever  was  homely, 

This  useful  Potato. 

On  the  whole  it  is  a  very  plain  plant, 
Makes  no  conspicuous  show, 

But  the  internal  appearance  is  lovely, 
Of  the  unostentatious  Potato. 

The  useful  and  the  beautiful 

Are  not  far  apart  we  know. 
And  thus  the  beautiful  are  glad  to  have, 

The  homelv  looking  Potato. 


77 

On  the  land,  or  on  the  sea, 

Wherever  we  may  go, 
We  are  always  glad  to  welcome 

The  homely  Potato. 

A  practical  and  moral  lesson 

This  may  plainly  show, 
That  though  homely,  our  heart  can  be 

Like  that  of  the  homely  Potato. 


THEN  AND  NOW. 

Then  women  were  contented  with  their  rights. 

And  did  n't  strive  for  rights  of  men, 
But  that  time  has  long  since  passed, 

This  is  now,  and  that  was  then. 

Then  it  was  scarcely  thought 

A  woman  could  nourish  the  author's  pen, 
But  minds  have  changed  long  since, 

This  is  now,  and  that  was  then. 

Things  have  greatly  changed, 

Even  in  years  so  few  as  ten  ; 
I  wonder  if  we  appreciate 

That  this  is  now,  and  that  was  then. 


78 


NO. 

It  is  a  diminutive  little  word; 

But  two  letters  can  it  show, 
Yet  who  knows  when  and  how, 

To  answer  No  ? 

It  has  a  deepness  in  its  import, 

That  it  does  not  show, 
And  who  knows  when  and  how, 

To  use  this  little  No  ? 

A  life  may  perhaps  depend 

On  the  utterance  of  this  little  word ; 
Ah  !  how  many  a  heart  has  fallen, 

As  it  has  been  heard. 

Though  it  is  but  a  little  word, 
And  can  but  two  letters  show, 

It  needs  study  to  know  when  and  how, 
To  use  this  little  No. 


79 


AN  OLD  MIRROR. 

It  is  old  and  time-worn,  cracked  and  broken, 
You  would  call  it  a  worthless  mass, 

But  it  is  to  me  a  very  dear  token, 
That  old  looking  glass. 

It  is  old  and  worthless  now,  I  know, 

And  for  its  value  I  do  not  save, 
But  for  the  faces  it  reflected  years  ago. 

That  now  are  in  the  grave. 

Baby  faces,  with  curly  hair 

And  a  rounded  form, 
Have  been  reflected  there, 

In  that  glass  so  time-worn. 

And  maidens  young  and  fair, 

With  cheeks  and  eyes  aglow, 
Have  been  reflected  there, 

Long,  long  years  ago. 

The  form  of  haughtiness  and  pride, 

That  glass  has  oft'  reflected, 
And  the  form  of  many  a  bride 

It  has  not  neglected. 

I'll  keep  it  for  the  sake  of  those 
Who  sleep  beneath  the  wavy  grass. 

Yes,  until  my  life  shall  close, 

I'll  keep  that  time-worn  looking  glass. 


80 


WANTED. 

A  person  not  absorbed  in  fashion, 

Who  cares  not  for  false  show, 
Who,  with  honesty  and  integrity, 

Through  this  world  will  try  to  go. 

One  who  for  no  one  can  be  hired, 

To  act  or  tell  a  falsehood, 
Will  act  alike  toward  rich  and  poor, 

And  be  upright,  just  and  good. 

One  who  cares  more  for  principle 

Than  fashionable  display, 
One  who  will  be  gentle,  loving,  kind 

And  good  tempered  every  day. 

One  who  will,  on  the  weary  beggar, 

Smile  his  heart  to  cheer, 
Will  to  the  widow  be  a  friend, 

And  kiss  away  the  orphan's  tear. 

One  who  will  not  pass  the  fatherless 
Or  motherless  coldly  on  the  street, 

But  will  have  a  kindlv  look  or  word, 
With  which,  them  all,  to  greet. 

One  who  will  lend  a  helping  hand 

To  any  who  are  in  trouble, 
Will  try  the  cares  and  troubles  of  the  poor, 

To  halve,  instead  of  double. 


81 

One  who  loves  Our  Heavenly  Father, 
And  will  his  kind  precepts  obey, 

Will  daily  read  the  Holy  Bible, 
And  also  love  to  pray. 

Wanted  one  of  that  description, 
To  reach  the  heavenly  goal, 

And  the  name  to  be  recorded 
On  God's  sacred  roll. 


WATCHING  A  CANDLE  BURN. 

Shorter  and  shorter  it  grows  ; 

Now  it  flitters  in  the  stick  ; 
It's  all  gone  at  last ; 

There's  nothing  left  but  wick. 

Our  life  is  flittering,  too, 
Like  the  candle  in  the  stick, 

But  let  us  leave  some  good  behind, 
Not  simply  a  worthless  wick. 

6 


82 


BY  MOTHER'S  CHAIR. 

You  may  be  old  and  feeble  now 

With  silver  colored  hair, 
And  yet  you  remember  well, 

Of  kneeling  by  mother's  chair. 

You  may  be  a  business  man. 

With  anxieties  and  care, 
But  do  you  not  remember 

Kneeling  by  mother's  chair  ? 

You  remember  the  kindly  look, 
As  she  heard  your  little  prayer ; 

Ah !  it  was  a  happy  time, 
Kneeling  by  mother's  chair. 

So  young  and  happy  then, 
No  thought  of  future  care, 

But  you  wished  the  time  to  come 
To  kneel  by  mother's  chair. 

You  may  have  battled  with  the  world, 
Been  hardened  by  toil  and  care, 

But  recall  again  the  time 
When  you  knelt  by  mother's  chair. 

Eecall  her  gentle  tones, 

As  she  taught  the  little  prayer, 
And  the  smile  she  gave, 

As  von.  knelt  bv  mother's  chair. 


83 


Eecall  the  face  serene  and  mild, 

The  slightly  silvered  hair, 
Eecall  again  the  happy  time, 

Kneeling  by  mother's  chair. 

That  mother  is  in  Heaven  now, 

And  she  awaits  yon  there, 
With  a  smile  as  sweet 

As  when  yon  knelt  by  mother's  chair. 

And  will  yon  not  try  to  meet  her9 
In  those  realms  so  bright  and  fair? 

Eemember  what  wras  taught  yon 
When  von  knelt  by  mother's  chair. 


A  CHILD'S  DIARY. 

I  have  a  diary  that  I  keep  with  care, 
And,  every  night  I  write  there, 
Whether  through  the  day,  good  or  bad 
I've  been, 

What  I've  done,  and  what  I've  seen  ; 
At  the  close  of  the  week,  I  read  it  o'er, 
And  resolve  that  I'll  do  bad  no  more. 
But  then  I  do  the  same  as  before. 


NOT  TOO  FAB. 

Yes,  give  an  innocent  joke, 
If  mirthful  and  gay  you  are ; 

An  innocent  joke  will  do  no  harm 
If  it  be  not  carried  too  far. 

But  let  us  be  sure  our  little  joke 

On  another  will  not  jar. 
And  let  us  always  be  sure,  my  friend, 

We  do  not  carry  the  joke  too  far. 

A  jest  or  joke  will  do  no  harm, 
For  it  can  neither  make  nor  mar, 

But  always  beware,  my  friend, 
Lest  you  carry  the  joke  too  far. 


THY  WILL  BE  DONE. 

It  may  seem  hard  to  say  sometimes, 
When  trials  and  troubles  come, 

But  then  is  it  not  a  consolation,  to  say, 
"  Father,  thy  will  be  done  ?  " 

Even  when  affliction  comes 

And  He  takes  away  some  loved  one, 
Is  it  not  a  comfort,  to  say, 

"Thy  will  0,  God,  be  done  ?" 


85 

Though  the  clouds  are  dark  around  us, 
And  our  pathway  drear  and  lone, 

Oh  !  is  it  not  sweet  to  say 

"  Father  in  Heaven,  thy  will  be  done  ?  " 

When  joy,  pleasure  and  happiness, 

Profusely  to  us  come. 
We  are  not  slow  to  say. 

"  Father,  thy  will  be  done." 

Still  it  is  the  same  kind  Father, 

That  sends  of  joy  some,  of  sorrow  some, 
And  ought  we  not  always  say, 

"  Father,  thy  will  be  done  ?  " 


THE  FLOWER  GARDEN. 

Ah !  hers  was  a  bright  and  cheery  place, 
A  quiet,  secluded  little  spot, 

Where,  with  her  little  flock  around  her, 
She  had  a  cheerful,  happy  lot. 

Each  one  of  her  little  flock 
Bore  the'  name  of  some  flower ; 

And  training  her  tender  plants, 
She  spent  many  a  happy  hour. 

There  was  Rose,  and  her  name 

Was  appropriately  her  own, 
For  scarlet  cheeks  and  lips 

Were  like  roses  fully  blown. 


86 

And  Daisy,  with  her  drooping  form 

And  eyes  of  violet  blue, 
And  her  long  and  heavy  curls, 

Of  a  lovely  golden  hue. 

And  Lily,  with  her  petite  figure 

And  eyes  of  limpid  brown, 
And  a  face  so  fair  and  sweet, 

That  seldom,  if  ever,  was  known  to  frown, 

And  Blossom,  with  her  childish  face 

And  merry  winning  smile. 
And  her  innocent  little  ways, 

With  never  a  thought  of  guile. 

And  then  there  was  a  boy 

And  his  name  was  Pink, 
He  was  the  youngest  of  them  all, 

At  least,  so  I  think. 

But  the  garden  grew  thinner  and  thinnei, 

The  flowers  all  dropped  away, 
And  the  spot  where  the  garden  was, 

Is  a  lonesome  place  tq-day. 


87 


IF  YOU  HAVE  A 

Do  not  give  up  my  friend, 

If  fortune  frown  on  you  to-day, 

But  be  this  known,  if  you  haye  a  will 
You'll  surely  find  a  way. 

The  prospects  may  look  dark, 

But  this  I'll  dare  to  say, 
That  if  you  have  a  will 

You'll  surely  find  a  way. 

Our  life  cannot  always  be  as  bright 
As  the  beautiful  month  of  May, 

But  where  there  is  a  will, 
There'll  surely  be  a  way. 

If  you  become  discouraged 

At  fortune's  slow  delay, 
Remember,  if  you  have  a  will, 

You'll  surely  find  a  way. 

From  your  duty,  let  nothing 

Ever  make  you  stay, 
And  know,  that  if  you  have  a  will 

You'll  surely  find  a  way. 


88 


GATHERING. 
We  move  among  the  autumn  leaves, 

In  little  corners  and  juts  : 
Ah !  there  is  a  great  deal  of  fun 

In  gathering  the  little  brown  nuts. 

Have  you  ever  been  nut  gathering  ? 

If  you  have  n't,  you  don't  know  the  fun 
There  is  in  lifting  the  leaves, 

To  find  each  hidden  one. 

Gently  blows  the  autumnal  breeze, 

And  fans  our  heated  brow ; 
How  delightful  and  refreshing ! 

We  can  gather  them  better  now. 

But  we  are  tired  and  heated  now  ; 

We'll  sit  us  down  beneath  the  trees, 
And  watch  the  dark-brown  nuts 

As  they  fall  among  the  leaves. 

The  sun  is  about  to  set  we  see,  [ting, 

Around  us,  the  night  will  soon  be  shut- 

And  now  we  will  return, 

And  come  some  other  time  a-nutting. 


89 


TOO    LATE. 

The  time  has  passed,  it  will  do  no  good, 
Alas !  why  mourn  our  fate  ? 

There  is  nothing  left  for  us, 

But  the  awful  thought,  "  Too  Late/' 

Nothing  will  make  the  matter  better. 

However  long  we  wait, 
And  what  has  caused  it  all  ? 

'Tis  plainly  to  be  seen,  "  Too  Late." 

How  many  a  wretched  being, 

Confined  by  iron  grate, 
Mourns,  if  I  were  but  free  again, 

But  alas  it  is  too  late,  too  late. 

A  passenger  train  was  rushing  on, 
There  was  only  a  slight  mistake, 

A  crash,  a  thousand  lives  were  lost 
By  being  a  little  too  late. 

Oh  !  may  there  be  none 

Standing  at  Heaven's  gate, 
Bearing  upon  their  shield 

The  fetal  words  :  "  Too  Late." 


THE  BRIDAL. 

Dressed  in  white,  at  the  altar  she  stood, 

With  a  soft  blush  on  her  cheek, 
And  vowed  to  be  a  wife,  faithful  and  good. 

In  accents  gentle  and  meek  ; 
The  room  was  so  quiet  and  still, 

And  every  one  gazed  at  the  bride,        [will," 
As  she  answered  the  questions,  with  a  clear  "  I 

And  a  beautiful  degree  of  pride. 

The  bridal  was  over  at  last, 

And  friends  hurried  the  first  kiss  to  claim, 
And  crowded  around  her  fast, 

To  greet  her  by  her  pretty  new  name ; 
The  bridal  it  now  was  over, 

And  she  no  longer  answered  the  call 
Of  little  Kittie  Clover, 

But  dignified  Mrs.  Hall. 

All  wished  the  pretty  bride  joy, 

And  hoped  nothing  might  ever  take  place 
To  worry,  trouble  or  annoy 

That  pure  girlish  face  ; 
Father  and  mother  then  bade  her  good  bye, 

And  resigned  her  to  a  stranger's  care, 
Though  it  was  with  many  a  tear  and  sigh, 

They  parted  with  their  Rosebud  fair. 


91 

She  had  left  a  kind  father's  care, 
A  mother's  watchful  eye, 

Where  all  her  days  had  been  so  fail- 
Without  a  tear  or  sigh  ; 

The  wiseacres  murmured  and  said, 
She'll  repent  it  all  too  late, 

But  she  wisely  shook  her  head, 
Saying,  I  know  the  step  I  take. 

Ere  two  short  years  had  fled, 

Before  the  altar  they  sat  once  more, 
But  in  the  coffin  she  lay  dead 

Who  was  a  bride  before  ; 
Father  and  mother  bitterly  wept, 

For  their  only  child, 
Who  in  death  now  slept, 

But  their  grief  was  not  wild. 

But  the  grief  of  him  whose  heart  she  won 

Was  by  far  too  wild  and  deep, 
To  be  soothed  or  quieted  by  any  one 

But  God  who  giveth  sleep; 
And  ere  a  year  its  course  had  run, 

He  joined  her  in  the  world  above, 
And  the  twain  again  were  one, 

United  by  perfect  love. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  DAT. 

I  hear  the  chirp  of  the  cricket,  the  drowsy  hum  of 

the  bee, 

And  the  low  murmuring  sound  of  the  busy  flea, 
And  around  me  fall  the  shadows  gray, 
I  know  it  is  near  the  close  of  another  day; 
And  what  will  be  recorded  for  me, 
In  the  ocean  of  eternity  ? 
Another  da'y  is  passed  and  gone, 
And  in  it  what  have  I  done  ? 
If  I  have  n't  done  wrong  in  any  great  measure. 
Have  I  laid  up  any  new  treasure  ? 
Have  I  cheered  a  heart  that  was  nearly  broken  ? 
Or  to  some  poor  soul  a  kind  word  spoken  ? 
Have  I  tried  the  weary  invalid  to  beguile  ? 
Have  I  given  a  kind  look,  word  or  smile 
To  some  suffering  mortal  in  distress  ? 
Have  I  cheered  for  a  moment  the  fatherless  ? 
Have  I  been  to  the  widow  a  friend, 
Or  tried  the  orphan's  woes  to  mend  ? 
If  I  have,  there  is  a  treasure  for  me, 
Laid  up  in  the  vast  eternity ; 
"  For  inasmuch  as  ye  do  it  unto  the  most  wee," 
Jesus  hath  said,  "  ye  do  it  unto  me ;  " 
But  if  I  have  n't,  I  must  wait 
Until  another  day ;  it 's  now  too  late  ; 
For  the  shadows,  so  dark  and  gray, 
Show  that  it  is  the  close  of  dav. 


93 


MY  FAITH. 

Take  away  my  Faith  from  me, 

And  should  n't  I  miss  her  though  ? 

She's  been  my  true  friend 

Through  summer's  sun  and  winter's  snow. 

What  treasure  do  I  possess, 

That  I  would  n't  sooner  let  go, 
Than  my  precious  Faith  who's  been  with  me, 

Through  summer's  sun  and  winter's  snow. 

She  goes  with  me  where  e'er  I  go, 

And  holds  me  by  the  hand; 
She  is  a  precious  treasure, 

More  lovable  than  grand. 

If  any  time  I  feel  drooping, 

Faith  whispers  a  promise  new, 
And  so  she  cheers  me  on, 

Whether  or  not  it  be  true. 

My  precious  Faith,  I  love  her  so, 

With  her  I  would  not  part ; 
Darling  treasure,  stay  with  me, 

And  ever  cheer  my  heart. 


94- 

A  VISIT  TO  THE  CEMETERY. 

I  move  among  the  marble  slabs, 

With  a  feeling  of  solemnity,  but  not  of  dread ; 
I  read  the  names  on  the  snowy  marble, 

Above  the  buried  dead ; 
This  grave  is  very  small, 

But  ah !  it  was  a  little  babe, 
Though  it  was  their  all, 

That  7neat,h  this  slab  is  laid ; 
But  what  lo\  ely  inscription  is  this  ? 

May  we  meet  baby  in  Heaven, 
Tho'  thee  we  so  sadly  miss, 

Thou  was  lent,  not  given. 

Ah !  babe  thine  is  a  happy  lot, 

Thine  a  quiet  resting  place, 
With  a  tiny  marble  to  mark  the  spot 

Where  sleeps  thy  baby  face ; 
Thou  didst  not  live  to  tight  with  the  world's  ways, 

To  struggle  with  turmoil  and  strife, 
Short  and  happy  were  thy  days, 

And  thine  a  sinless  life ; 
Fond  parents  now  mourn  their  babe, 

But  thou  art  happier  than  they, 
Thy  little  peace  is  made, 

For  a  long,  an  endless  day. 

I  was  going  to  pass  this  one  by, 

It  is  so  much  in  the  shade, 
Aged,  five  years,  Willie  Guy, — 

The  grave  is  tastefully  made, 


But  only  a  block  smooth  and  plain, 

(For  it  is  done  with  care,) 
Bears  upon  it  the  name 

Of  the  one  lying  there. 
Rest,  gentle  sleeper,  rest 

With  thy  Father  so  loving  and  mild ; 
Now  thou  art  as  truly  blest, 

As  is  the  rich  man's  child. 

I  move  on  toward  a  more  fashionable  spot, 

That  is  n't  so  much  in  the  shade, 
And  where  blooms  in  profusion  the  forget-me-not, 

Over  the  grave  so  beautifully  made ; 
I  guess  by  the  monument  so  great  and  grand 

Some  person  very  much  renowned ; 
May  be  a  Missionary  from  a  foreign  land, 

Sleeps  'neath  that  spot  of  ground ; 
But  as  I  draw  near  I  see  'tis  small  of  size, 

And  what  is  this  I  read  ? 
I  can  scarce  believe  my  eyes, 

Aged,  five  years,  three  months,  Herby  0.  Mead. 

Eest  to  thee,  sweet  sleeper, 

Thou  art  gone  to  thy  sweet  rest, 
Though  it  is  none  the  sweeter, 

Xor  art  thou  more  blest ; 
With  thy  Father  so  loving  and  mild, 

In  whose  arms  thou  dost  now  repose, 
Than  the  poor  widow's  child, 

Who  did  his  eyes  in  poverty,  close. 


96 

I  leave  the  little  sleepers  and  go  to  another  quarter; 

This  one  is  sunken  and  low, 
Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Kittle,  only  daughter. 

Died, — yes  long  ago, 
And  here  by  her  side, 

Is  a  longer  grave  —  the  grave  of  another ; 
May  fifth,  18—  died, 

Mary,  beloved  wife  and  mother. 

Here  mother  and  daughter  sleep, 

Side  by  side  they  lie  ; 
Side  by  side  may  they  ever  keep, 

In  their  beautiful  home  on  High. 

Two  tiny  graves  side  by  side, 

What  is  the  name  upon  the  stone  ?  Bristers  — 
After  a  short  illness,  died, 

Susy  and  Minnie  little  twin  sisters. 
Happily  you  lived  together, 

And  the  chain  which  bound  you, 
Will  now  be  broken  never, 

But  be  united  anew. 

This  lovely  grave  with  a  myrtle  wreath, 

And  picture  on  the  stone  sublime, 
Shows  that  she  who  sleeps  beneath, 

Died  before  her  time; 
And  the  inscription  that  is  between, 

Died  by  accident,  August  fourth,  18—  Rosa  May, 
Aged  just  eighteen, 

Eldest  daughter  of  Allen  Fay. 


97 

If  them  didst  die  before  thy  time, 

Thou  didst  die  young  and  fair; 
Peace  and  happiness  are  thine 

And  thou  art  free  from  care ; 
If  thou  hadst  lived,  we  cannot  tell, 

What  might  have  been  thy  lot ; 
So  perhaps  it's  just  as  well 

To  sleep  in  this  lovely  spot. 

After  a  short  and  painful  illness,  died, 

January  tenth,  18—,  Alline  M.  Grey, 
Beloved  and  betrothed  bride, 

Of  Alexander  Da}'. 
Thou  hast  past  from  this  changeful  world  of  ours 

To  one  ever  bright  and  fair, 
Where  bloom  perennial  flowers 

Beautiful  and  rare. 

The  future  that  opened  before  thee, 

The  prospects  so  fair  and  so  bright, 
Thou  didst  not  stay  to  see, 

But  went  where  all  is  light. 
Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Ivy  Granger, 

That  was  all  it  said ; 
It  did  not  tell  how  she  was  a  stranger, 

Far  from  her  kindred  dead. 

Sleep,  gentle  stranger,  in  thy  quiet  place; 

If  thine  was  a  short,  unhappy  life, 
A  fearful  struggling  race, 

Now  thou  art  free  from  strife ; 
7 


98 

Sleep,  gentle  stranger ;  'tis  not  for  us  to  chide, 

Thine  was  not  a  happy  lot, 
Tho'  by  thy  example  we  would  not  abide, 

Fair  stranger,  we  judge  thee  not. 

Ah !  here  is  neither  stone  nor  stave 

To  bear  the  sleeper's  name ; 
Alas  !  it  is  a  pauper's  grave, 

So  very  poor  and  plain. 

Rich  or  poor,  beggar  or  king,  it  matters  not, 

If  thy  spirit  be  with  God, 
Though  no  stone  marks  the  spot 

Where  thy  form  lies  'neath  the  sod : 
Peacefully,  peacefully  mayst  thou  rest, 

Peacefully,  peacefully  slumber ; 
May  the  blessings  of  the  blest 

Fall  round  thee  without  number ; 
Thou  hast  seen  many  an  angry  frown, 

Heard  many  words  harsh  and  cold, 
From  people  of  distinction  and  renown, 

To  whom  thy  tale  thou'st  told. 

Died  March  fifth,  18—, 

After  a  long  illness,  aged  twenty-one, 
Leland  L.  Frank, 

Of  Abel  Frank,  only  son. 

Thy  race  was  short  and  quickly  run, 
But  thy  time  was  well  improved, 

And  of  the  good  thou  hast  done, 
Talk  parents  and  friends  who  loved ; 


99 

Ought  they  not  cherish  long  and  well 

The  good  that  thou  hast  done  ? 
None  but  those  who've  lost  can  tell, 

What  it  is  to  lose  an  only  son. 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Amanda  Koyce, 
Aged  ninety  years,  ten  months  and  five  days ; 

Hushed  now  is  thy  sweet  silvery  voice, 
Gone  thy  smile  like  the  sunbeam's  rays. 

Sleep  gently  now  aged  one, 

Thou  hast  spent  a  long  and  useful  life, 
But  thy  work  at  last  is  done ; 

Thou  hast  been  a  fond  mother,  a  devoted  wife, 
To  the  week  and  erring,  a  faithful  guide ; 

Thou  hast  cheered  the  heart  that  was  nearly 
Given  counsel  to  the  youthful  bride,  [broken, 

To  the  fallen  ones,  a  kind  word  spoken ; 
We  leave  thee,  peaceful  be  thy  rest ; 

We  know  that  thou  art  happy  now, 
And  dwelling  among  the  blest, 

The  crown  of  victory  on  thy  brow. 

I  know  well  when  this  was  made, 

And  feel  like  hurrying  by, 
For  it  is  a  drunkard's  grave 

That  is  now  before  my  eye, 

His  was  a  tall  and  manly  form 

With  many  a  winning  grace, 
Till  he  became  forsaken  and  forlorn, 

And  shame  depicted  on  his  face ; 


100 

For  friends  and  fortune  he  did  not  lack, 

But  neither  could  keep  him  secure 
From  that  fatal  track 

Which  toward  the  grave  did  lure ; 
Father,  we  plead  for  him  in  tears 

Before  the  great  white  throne. 
He  was  so  young  in  years, 

Forgive  the  wrong  he's  done. 

This  one  with  a  cypress  wreath, 

And  a  pictured  form  beside  a  shield, 

Shows  that  he  who  lies  beneath 
Died  on  a  battle  field. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  ye  noble  brave, 

Thou,  for  our  country,  thy  life  didst  yield; 
Thine  is  an  honored  grave, 

Thyself,  from  danger,  thou  didst  not  shield, 
Thou  didst  not  live  till  set  of  sun, 

Thou  didst  not  live  to  know 
The  victory  thou'st  won, 

But  tho'  thy  victory  thou  didst  not  learn  below. 
In  that  world  where  thou  hast  gone, 

Mayst  thou  the  welcome  message  hear, 
Faithful  servant,  well  done, 

Calm  every  doubt  and  fear. 

I  pause  again  this  time,  a  cross 

Deep  in  the  marble  made, 
Shows  the  world's  loss, 

'Tis  a  martyr's  grave; 


101 

A  martyr  who,  in  a  foreign  land, 

For  the  blessed  Saviour's  sake, 
Went  to  teach  a  heathen  band, 

And  lost  his  life  at  the  stake. 

For  Jesus  thou  wert  slain, 

Regardless  of  friend  or  brother, 
Thou  shalt  find  thy  life  again, 

Not  in  this  world,  but  surely  in  the  other; 
Thou  art  with  thy  Father  now, 

In  the  land  above, 
With  victory  on  thy  brow, 

And  round  thee  perfect  love. 

My  visit  to  the  cemetery  is  o'er, 

But  ere  I  leave  it  quite  behind, 
I  turn  and  look  once  more 

On  the  graves  of  every  kind ; 
Here  side  by  side  lie  rich  and  poor, 

The  man  whose  money  gathered  rust, 
And  he  who  begged  a  crust  at  his  door, 

Both  are  sleeping  in  the  dust. 
Here  the  martyr  and  the  soldier  lie, 

Here  lies  the  mother,  here  the  babe, 
And  he  who  a  death  of  shame  did  die; 

Graves  of  every  kind  are  made, 
Of  different  length  and  size  ; 

We'll  hope  all  who  in  them  are  laid, 
Are  in  Mansions  be  von  d  the  skies. 


102 


A  FASHIONABLE  PRAYER. 

Father  in  Heaven,  Oh !  keep  rny  face, 

Free,  free  from  aught  that  will  deface, 

0  please  to  keep  my  hair 

Glossy  dark  and  fair, 

And  my  eyes  so  unfading  and  bright, 

That  I  can  see  plainly,  even,  by  twilight; 

May  my  feet  not  so  large  grow, 

That  I  can't  get  on  a  number  two  shoe, 

0  let  my  hands  be  white  and  small, 

And  my  cheeks  as  round  as  an  apple  or  ball ; 

May  my  teeth  be  even  and  white, 

And  my  eyes  as  bright  as  stars  at  night ; 

May  I  have,  of  tan  and  freckles  instead, 

A  complexion  clear  white  and  red ; 

Father  in  Heaven,  Oh  !  hear  my  prayer, 

And  make  me  truly  lovely  and  fair. 


WHAT  SHALL  WE  MAKE  OF  HIM. 

Either  in  a  trade  or  on  the  farm, 

We  can  make  the  boys  all  useful,  but  Jim  ; 
I've  thought  it  over  and  over. 

What  shall  we  do  with  him  9 

Xo  liking  for  work  or  study 

Does  he  ever  seem  to  take, 
And  it  puzzles  me  sorely, 

How  we  can  him  useful  make. 


1C3 

]S"ow  mother  why  need  you  worry  ? 

I've  got  a  plan  for  him, 
A  good  one  too  you'll  say, 

I'll  make  an  editor  of  Jim. 

Surely  that's  just  the  thing, 
For  he  cann't  learn  books  or  trade. 

If  we'd  thought  of  it  before, 
He  would  have  now  been  made. 

To  the  editor  next  clay  he  went, 

And  took  along  his  Jim, 
Said  he,  he  is  n't  very  bright, 

And  I  want  an  editor  of  him. 

He  questioned  Jim  a  little, 

Who  stood  before  him  like  a  tool ; 

I'll  tell  you  what  Mr.  said  he, 
And  editor  cann't  be  a  fool. 


SUNDAY. 

Sweet  day  of  rest,  we  welcome  thee, 

God's  own  sacred  day ; 
It  is  a  blessed  time 

To  think  and  pray. 

The  week's  work  is  over, 

And  care  and  work  we  put  away, 
And  hail  with  joy 

The  holy  Sabbath  day. 


lOi 

The  bells  are  sweetly  chiming, 
And  people  are  hastening  now 

To  the  house  of  worship, 

In  prayer  and  submission  to  bow. 

Sweet  day  of  rest  to  all, 

The  merchant  relaxes  his  brow, 
The  lawyer  rests  his  brain, 

The  farmer  drops  his  plough.  . 

From  the  king  upon  his  throne, 
To  the  prisoner  in  his  cell, 

Sweet  day,  thou  bringest  rest, 
Indeed  we  love  thee  well. 

Dear,  delightful  day  of  rest, 
God's  own  hallowed  day ; 

Aside  we  put  all  work  and  care, 
And  hail  the  Sabbath  day. 


ROBBIE. 

He  has  cheeks  that  are  rosy  and  fair, 
And  pretty  locks  of  tawny  hair ; 
He  has  eyes  of  a  darkish  brown, 
And  face  that  rarely  has  a  frown ; 
Little  Robbie,  he's  but  a  child, 
But  very  loving,  gentle  and  mild, 
With  such  a  sober,  solemn  way, 
'Tis  though  he'll  be  a  minister  some  day. 


105 


"MAKE  YOURSELF  AT  HOME." 

As  we  journey  far  away, 
And  o'er  the  land  do  roam, 

"Tis  a  pleasant  sound  to  hear, 
"  Pray,  make  yourself  at  home." 

But  vain  as  it  is  useless, 

For  whether  it  be  cot  or  throne, 
On  this  wide,  wide  earth, 

There  is  no  place  like  home. 

Our  host  and  hostess  may  be  kind, 
And  many  a  comfort  loan, 

But  the  words  are  vain  as  useless, 
"  Pray,  make  yourself  at  home." 

Though  we  affect  content, 
The  heart  will  cry  and  moan, 

And  vain  as  useless  are  the  words, 
"  Do  make  yourself  at  home." 


106 


PARTING  WORDS. 

Ah  !  did  you  ever  stand, 

With  tears  stealing  into  your  eye, 
And  sadly  reach  your  hand, 

And  utter  the  word  good  bye  ? 

Then  you  remember  a  sad  face, 

"With  a  tear-dimmed  eye, 
Trying  the  tears  to  erase, 

And  respond  to  your  good  bye. 

Did  you  ever  stand  by  brook  or  gate, 
With  feelings  you  could  n't  tell, 

While  you  did  so  badly  hate, 
To  speak  the  word  farewell  ? 

Or,  if  not  by  gate  or  brook, 

Did  you  ever  stand  in  grove  or  dell, 

With  one  whose  friendly  look. 
Made  it  hard  to  say  farewell  ? 

Have  you  stood  at  the  door  of  stage  or  carv 
With  a  much  lov'd  friend  beside  you, 

Who  was  going  away  very  far, 
And  dreaded  to  say  adieu  ? 

Next  time  you're  about  to  part, 

Utter  au  revoir,  with  a  pleasant  smile, 

And  if  you  like  this  art, 
Then  use  it  all  the  while. 


OF  THK 

UNIVERSITY 


107 


THE  FIRST  GLASS. 

On  a  couch,  in  a  hovel,  a  man  was  lying, 
And  his  wild  eyes  and  rigid  face, 
Showed  that  he  was  dying  ; 
By  his  rum  tainted  breath, 
It  was  a  drunkard's  death ; 
By  him  watched  a  woman  pale, 
And  though  worn  by  care, 
Traces  of  beauty  lingered  there. 

Come  with  me  to  Welton  Hall, 

'Tis  the  birthday  party  of  Irma  Ball ; 

From  the  merry  group  she  is  standing  apart, 

With  her  bosom  friend  Rosina  Hart. 

Yes  every  thing  is  lovely  and  bright, 

But  don't  trifle  with  wine  to  night ; 

Oh  !  Rosy  don't  say  so, 

I  must  have  wine  you  know. 

She  sees  fair  Irma  the  tiny  salver  pass, 
And  hears  her  say,  Drink  it  for  my  sake ; 
Dear  cousin  it  is  my  first  glass, 
But  it  for  you  I'll  take. 

Need  I  tell  you  reader,  dear, 

That  she  who  is  by  the  death  couch  near. 

Is  the  Rosina  of  Welton  Hall, 

Once  the  friend  of  Irma  Ball, 

That  he  who  on  the  couch  is  lying, 

He  who  a  drunkard's  death  is  dying, 


108 

Is  lie,  to  whom  fair  Inna,  on  thai  fatal  night, 

Did  the  tiny  salver  pass. 

And  urged  him  to  drink  his  first  glass. 

My  youthful  readers,  gay  and  fair, 
I  would  say  to  you  beware!  beware! 
How  you  the  tiny  salver  pass, 
And  how  you  urge  the  fatal  glass. 


THE  BLUE  GAUZE  VEIL. 

Oh !  it  was  such  a  lovely  day, 
Just  right  for  a  delightful  sail, 

But  as  my  skiff  moved  away, 

I  had  no  thought  of  a  blue  ga~uze  veil. 

I  reached  the  shaded  wood, 

My  little  skiff  I  moored, 
Then  for  a  moment  stood, 

Ere  I  the  thicket  explored. 

When  I  returned  'twas  nearly  dark, 
I  had  stayed  a  number  of  hours, 

The  flight  of  time  I  did  not  mark, 
So  busily  had  I  gathered  flowers. 

My  skiff  I  hastened  to  untie, 

And  was  about  setting  sail, 
When  what  should  meet  my  eye, 

But  a  blue  gauze  veil. 


109 

Well,  I  kept  it  first  for  fun, 

And,  but  not  to  prolong  my  tale, 

I  think  I  soon  shall  wed  the  one 
Who  owned  the  blue  gauze  veil. 


ONE  STEP  AT  A  TIME. 
If  a  long  and  toilsome  ladder 

You  were  trying  to  climb, 
You  would  not  reach  the  top  at  once, 

But  by  one  step  at  a  time. 

Doubtless  all  of  you  are  trying, 
Different  ladders  to  climb, 

But  be  sure  you  only  take 
One  step  at  a  time. 

One  step  and  take  it  surely, 

Not  like  a  conceited  fop, 
And  soon  you'll  find  my  friend. 

That  you  have  reached  the  top. 


LINES  FOR  AN  ALBUM. 
My  friend,  'mong  strangers  now 
I  soon  shall  dwell, 
But  thus  it  is  to  be, 
And  ere  I  bid  thee  a  last  farewell, 
Promise  to  think  of  me ; 
Think  of  me  as  one  who  whatever 
Befall  thee, 

Will  ever  be  true  to  thee  as  now, 
When  friends  are  around  thee, 
And  joys  illume  thy  brow. 


110 


THE  OLD  FASHIONED  STAGE. 

Up  in  the  morning  before  day  break, 

If  the  stage  you  were  going  to  take ; 

Breakfast  in  a  hurry  they  would  prepare, 

Potatoes  half  cooked  —  eggs  very  rare, 

And  the  coffee  could  n't  be  made  to  steep, 

And  some  one  a  close  vigil  would  keep, 

While  in  the  confusion  and  heat, 

You  endeavored  a  few  mouthsful  to  eat, 

(Which  did  you  no  good  in  the  worry  and  stew,) 

Lest  the  stage  should  chance  to  leave  you ; 

The  first  egg  you  could  n't  eat,  the  second  on  your 

plate, 

When  the  stage  is  coming,  you'll  be  too  late ; 
With  a  deathly  faintness  you  could  n't  stop  to  tell, 
Away  you  hurried  with  a  hasty  farewell, 
And  were  just  in  time  for  the  old  rumbling  stage, 
But  lo  !  in  the  hurry  you  had  forgotten  an  import 
ant  package ; 

And  then  the  air  was  so  stifling  and  hot, 
But  to  the  driver  it  mattered  not, 
On  he  jogged  with  as  much  relief, 
As  if  the  passengers  could  get  breath  : 
You   might   have   raised   the   window   and  got  a 

breeze, 

But  the  mother  was  afraid  her  child  would  sneeze ; 
So  twenty  or  thirty  miles,  you  must  ride, 
Without  getting  a  breath  of  air  from  outside, 
Cramped  up  by  fleshy  old  ladies  and  babies  crying, 
You  felt  as  if  you  were  almost  dying ; 


Ill 

But  did  n't  you  hurry  out  fast, 

When  the  stage  halted  at  last  ? 

Thanks  for  the  modern  improvements  of  the  age, 

That  have  put  out  of  use  the  old  fashioned  stage. 


"MAY  DAY." 

For  one  or  two  brief  hours, 

I  laid  all  work  away, 
And  went  to  gather  flowers, 

This  first  day  of  May. 

I  went  into  the  bright  green  wood, 

Where  the  acorns  scattered  lay, 
But  tearfully  I  stood, 

Thinking  of  last  "  May  Day." 

The  friends  that  were  with  me, 

Alas  !  where  are  they  ? 
The  friends  that  joined  me, 

On  last  "  May  Day." 

I  stooped  in  various  places, 

To  pick  up  acorns  where  they  lay, 

But  I  missed  the  faces, 

That  were  with  me  last  "  May  Day." 

I  gathered  flowers  and  acorns,  single  and  double, 
But  both  had  lost  their  brightness, 

In  my  heart  seemed  a  trouble. 

And  it  could  n't  regain  its  lightness. 


112 

There  have  been  lovely  showers, 
To  bring  forth  bright  flowers, 

And  I've  had  a  chance, 

To  enjoy  woodland  romance 

Much  rustic  beauty  have  I  seen, 
Yet  on  the  whole,  I  must  say, 

That  for  me  it  has  n't  been 
A  very  happy  "  May  Day." 


TO  THE  READERS  OF  MY  VOLUME. 

Dear  readers,  my  little  volume  is  ended, 

With  it  my  warmest  wishes  are  blended, 

That  it  may  please  you  each  and  all, 

Old  and  young,  great  and  small ; 

How  well  I  have  succeeded,  I  leave  for  you  to  tell, 

And  with  thanks  for  your  kind  attention, 

Bid  you  all  farewell ; 

And  where  e'er  you  are,  what  e'er  your  lot, 

Dear  readers,  one  and  all,  forget  me  not. 


A  QUESTION. 

Dear  friends,  all  who've  been  kind  enough, 
This  little  volume,  to  peruse  with  care, 

Tell  me  candidly,  do  you  think  it 
Another  castle  in  the  air  ? 


OF  THE 

/  tTNIVERSITY 


YA  0194 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


DOX  EY 


